The Watson's Care
by RosemarieCraig
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes are taken into care, and are fostered by John Watson and his parents. How will they get along, especially since Mycroft is haunted by memories of his abuse? Sexual Abuse Warning- not for sensitive stomachs
1. Chapter 1

**A.N. I have gone through this story in meticulous detail, adding scenes and taking out bits that don't work any more. I really recommend starting reading again. You don't have to, but there are lodes of really nice scenes with John and Sherlock, Lizzie and Mycroft or even Harry and Mycroft. It's also about 4000 words longer. So yeah, Ono obligation, but I think you should start again!**

"Why did they give us up?" the little boy pulled at his brother's jacket.

"Why should I know any better than you, Lock?" Mycroft said gently, with a hint of frustration. His brother was always annoying, but Mycroft knew the boy had had to suffer for it with his father. So he tried never to show how angry he made him.

"You know everything" he said, in awe of the fountain of knowledge that was his big brother.

"No I don't"

"You knew when Daddy was drunk. I didn't know"

"I told you how to know, though, didn't I? Pupils dilated, slurred speech, clumsiness, anger, smell"

"I know. Why was Daddy cross with me?"

"He was drunk, Lock. He didn't mean it"

"But it hurt" Mycroft looked down at the child, who was looking at him from under his brown curls. He had a large bruise covering his cheek and eye.

"I know. You've got to be strong, now, Lock"

"Do we have to live with strangers?" He looked down at his trainers, scuffing the floor.

"Yeah. Yeah we do. But they'll be nicer than Daddy, you just wait and see"

"Promise?"

"I promise"

"But you promised you wouldn't let Daddy hit me like he hit you" Sherlock looked frightened. He had always trusted his big brother. Mycroft never broke his promises.

"I've always managed to stop him before"

"Not always"

"Not other than tonight? He's never hit you before?" Mycroft asked, his heart heavy with dread.

"Yes he has"

"When, Sherlock? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Last week he hit me with his belt. Only once, not like you. It really hurt"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"He made me promise"

"Has he ever asked you to keep anything else a secret, Lock? Anything at all?" Mycroft knelt down, gripping his brother's shoulders, shaking him slightly, desperate to know.

"Only when he makes me watch you get hurt, and he tells me not to tell anyone. Let me go, Mycroft" Mycroft stood back up, dusting his trousers. Sherlock slipped his hand into his brother's.

"You did a good job, Lock. I promise"

"Why did Daddy want to hurt you?"

"I did bad things, Lock. I disobeyed and did things he didn't want me to do"

"What kinds of things?"

"I don't know. I bought you that toy car, remember? And I was late home from school"

"But you were screaming, last night"

"I know" he sounded conflicted, as though he wanted to both protect his brother from the truth and at the same time hide his terror at the attacks.

"Did it really hurt?"

"Yes, Sherlock, it did. But the doctor mended my arm, see, I've got a lovely red cast" Mycroft held out his arm so the five year old could see the cast. "And he mended my ribs, and my foot, and stitched up my back. I'll be fine"

"Do I have to have a cast?"

"No Lock. You're not badly hurt at all, are you"

"No Mycroft"

"Good boy" he smiled.

"Will they be nice to me?"

"Yes, of course they will, you're cute, they'll love you"

"You're not cute"

"Very astute of you Sherlock" Mycroft said sarcastically

"But you're not. Does that mean they won't love you?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft bit his lip. It had been worrying him.

"I don't know"

"Did Daddy love us?"

"No"

"Don't parents love their children?"

"Yes, normally they do. But Daddy wasn't capable of love, Lock. He was too in love with work and alcohol"

"Why didn't he love us?"

"Because he didn't want us. We got in the way"

"In the way of what?"

"His whores" Mycroft whispered, too quietly for the little boy to hear him "In the way of his life, Lock. He wanted a life with no responsibility. Children don't fit into that"

"But why did he hit you so much?"

"Because he couldn't hit you"

"Why not?"

"You're too little"

"But why did he hit you?"

"I annoyed him. He needed someone to blame when things went wrong. Stress release"

"Why did you let him hit you?"

"I didn't let him! He was bigger than me"

"You're bigger than me, and when you hit me, I bite. Why didn't you just bite Daddy?"

"Because, Sherlock, when someone comes at you with a belt and a bottle of vodka, you don't bite them, you stand still and take it like a man!" Mycroft snapped. Sherlock drew his hand away from his brother's and stared at the ground. He detested shouting. "Sorry, Lock, I've had a bad day"

"I know"

"You too?"

"Yeah. Bad day"


	2. Chapter 2

"I think these are the Watson's" Mycroft said, pointing to a red Ford as it pulled into the drive of the government building.

"I don't like them"

"You haven't even seen them yet"

"I don't like them" Sherlock repeated. Mycroft sighed. He knew how difficult the boy could be. Four people got out of the car, an overweight, sweet looking woman, a short blonde man with a small moustache, a girl with short blonde hair and a boy dressed in jeans and a woollen jumper.

"They look nice, Sherlock, and they're going to give us a home. That's kind of them, isn't it"

"Yes"

"Let's give them a chance, huh?"

"Okay" Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's hand as they stood up to meet the Watson's.

"Hello boys! You must be Mycroft" the plump woman said, extending a hand towards the boy. Mycroft disentangled himself from his brother and shook her hand, then the man's. He had large hands.

"I'm Kevin, and this is Lizzie" the man said, pointing at his chest and then putting his arm around his wife's shoulders. The girl pulled her iPod out of one ear and said hello sullenly.

"Harry" she said bluntly, not looking at either boy.

"Hello Harry, I'm Mycroft" he said, extending a hand for her to shake. She was a year younger than him, perhaps, around eleven. She looked disdainfully at his hand and plugged her iPod back into her ear. Mycroft lowered his arm, feeling painfully self conscious.

"Never mind our Harry, she's a bit moody at the moment"

"I understand. It's fine" Mycroft said stiffly. Instead he looked down at Sherlock, who was hiding behind his knees. "Come on, Lock. Meet Kevin and Lizzie"

"Hullo" the little boy said, nervously. He wasn't usually nervous, but so much had happened today, and it was already two hours past his bedtime.

"Hello Sherlock" Lizzie knelt down near him "We're going to be looking after you and your brother for a while. Is that okay?"

"I suppose. Do you have any animals?"

"A dog, Jake. He's a Yorkshire Terrier"

"I like dogs"

"I'm glad, because one of your little jobs is going to be walking him with Kevin and John"

"Without Mycroft?"

"Mycroft can come if he wants to. We want you to feel safe, Sherlock"

"I want Mycroft to come"

"Okay" Lizzie said, smiling at the dark haired child sadly. She knew how much he had been through. She turned to her son, the boy a year or so older than Sherlock wearing a beige woollen jumper and corduroy trousers. He looked like a child taken straight from 1950. Sherlock liked him instantly. He had a hint of intelligence that Sherlock hardly ever saw.

"Would it be okay if we went to your house now, Lizzie? Sherlock's up rather late, you see."

"Of course. You've had a tiring day. Let me talk to your social worker and get the last papers signed, whilst you go and wait in the car, okay?"

"Sure" Mycroft said, glad to be one step closer to being able to lie down. His ribs and back were sore. Kevin opened the car door for him, and Mycroft buckled a sleepy Sherlock into the back of the seven seater. John scrambled up into the seat next to him. Mycroft sat in front of John, and Harry sat silently, tapping her leg to the beat of her iPod in front of Sherlock. Kevin jumped into the driver's seat and turned around to talk to Mycroft.

"I bet you're exhausted"

"Yeah, really tired"

"You know you're safe now, right? No one is going to hurt you here"

"I understand that"

"I just wanted to clear it with you. I might get angry with you, and so might Lizzie, but we will never hit you. We promise"

"Thank you" Mycroft said, stifling a yawn. Lizzie hopped into the passenger seat, and Kevin turned back to the wheel. They drove back to the suburban semi in close to silence, the dark falling outside. Mycroft stared out of the window, resting his head against the cool glass, recounting the day. It was something he'd always done. Remember, process, dismiss, progress.

"I told you not to do that, Sherlock" the man slurred, anger glinting in his eyes. The little boy was backing away from the book he had open on the kitchen table "You're not allowed books downstairs"

"Sorry Daddy"

"Sorry?" he mocked, sticking out his tongue.

"Sorry Daddy" Sherlock repeated, retreating further towards the wall. He was licking his lips, trying to soften them, get some of the moisture that had dried with fear back. The tall man raised his fist.

"You're a worthless piece of shit, Sher-" but as the fist was about to hit Sherlock's face, another hand got in the way. Mycroft had stopped the attack. The man turned, furious, on his older son and twisted his arm sharply behind his back. He shoved Mycroft hard against the wall, and the boy gasped as his arm was wrenched above his shoulder, snapping loudly. Mycroft felt, through the blaze of white hot pain, being spun around again and punched in the stomach. He sank to the floor, and clutched his useless arm with his left, twisting his ankle under him. His father kicked him over and over in the chest and stomach. "Sherlock. Get Daddy his belt" Sherlock shuddered, and tried to protest. "Now Sherlock!" the man shouted. The boy ran out of the room. Mycroft groaned. No way he would be going back to school in the morning. This might even mean a trip to hospital. Which would mean lying to doctors. His arm burned sharply. Sherlock returned, carrying the black leather belt that their father kept in a draw in their shared bedroom. Their father grabbed it from the boy, but Sherlock held on to it.

"Please, don't hurt him" Sherlock whispered

"Awww, a chunk of humanity from our beloved sociopath" he said mockingly. Sherlock bit his lip.

"You can hit me instead, if you like. Mycroft didn't do anything wrong"

"Shut up" the man dismissed, taking the belt forcibly. Sherlock lunged forward to keep it in his grasp, but the man swung his other hand around to punch the boy hard in the face. Sherlock flew three feet across the room into a wall, the blow was so hard.

"No!" Mycroft yelled. He could hear his father wrapping the belt around his hand, whacking it against his hand to test. The pain was already unbearable, so bad his whole body ached. He couldn't stand any more. But the blows still fell, buckle first, ripping into his skin and pulling a flap up with every stroke. Twenty of them, in rapid succession, all on the same patch of flesh. Mycroft could feel the copious amounts of blood tricking down his back. He couldn't breathe from the haze of agony. Sherlock was sobbing, curled up against the wall, watching his brother get hurt, powerless to stop it. Mycroft passed out, screaming.

Mycroft took his head off the window, his eyes misting with the unbearable weight that was crushing him.

"You okay?" Lizzie turned slightly to smile gently at him.

"I'm fine" Mycroft said, stiffly. He hated to share his emotions.

"You're crying" John pointed out

"Am not" Mycroft said roughly, pushing his hands across his eyes.

"Are too. All the foster kids cry on the way home"

"Well, Sherlock and I don't cry"

"You're crying. Sherlock isn't, but he's asleep"

"Leave him alone, John" Lizzie said gently. "Here we are, your new home" Mycroft looked out of the window at the cream semidetached house with flowers in the window boxes and a yellow front door. He was too exhausted to form a real opinion, but he got a feeling of peace and happiness. "Come on then, let's get the kids out the back. Harry, can you help John for me please?"

"Whatever" said Harry bluntly, running her fingers through her short, stubby blonde hair. Mycroft turned and moved his seat so he could reach Sherlock. He was fast asleep. Mycroft brushed his hair away from his face and unbuckled him quietly. He picked the little boy up and carried the warm bundle close to him. Lizzie led the boys into the house and upstairs to their bedroom. It was pale blue, with cream carpet and pine furniture. A single and a bunk bed took up a lot of the room, but in the middle there was a desk and a floor area for playing. A wardrobe stood ominously in the corner. Mycroft avoided it. He laid Sherlock down on the single bed.

"Thank you, Mrs Watson" he said quietly "Without you I-"

"We'll talk in the morning, Mycroft dear. It will all be okay. If you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to ask, Kevin and I are at the end of the hall"

"Thank you" he said dully, his eyes clouding with his desperation to sleep. Lizzie kissed his head, and left the room with a 'goodnight'. Mycroft collapsed backwards onto the bottom of the bunk bed, and didn't even bother to lie out straight before he fell into a deep, dream filled sleep.

"Get in"

"Please, Daddy, don't make me do this again. I hate it"

"Get in" the man repeated, pushing Mycroft into the wardrobe in the master bedroom. "Sit properly"

"Please" Mycroft begged, rearranging his body so he was knelt ramrod straight, his legs apart and hands behind his back. It was a position he regularly saw his Father's girls in. The man slammed the door of the wardrobe shut, leaving Mycroft in total darkness except from the slit of light that had been cut out at his eye level. It gave him a perfect view of the bed. He had had to kneel in here, watching, for up to six hours before, whilst his father took one prostitute after the other. It made him feel disgusting. His father would drag him out afterwards and have him recount everything in detail, to prove he watched. If he made any mistakes, he would be beaten and would have to spend the night in the wardrobe. Mycroft shuddered as he knelt uncomfortably. He was afraid. Anything could be happening to Sherlock while he wasn't there to protect the boy. Eventually, after an hour of kneeling, Mycroft's legs burnt, his back ached, and he had lost the feeling in his fingers and toes. But he didn't move. Suddenly, the door opened, and two people thrust into the room. Mycroft gasped as he recognised his English teacher. His concentration slipped back to the last few weeks. She had been treating him more kindly, his marks had gone up. Now he had his explanation. He looked up out of the hole again, trying to commit every detail to memory for the examination afterwards. She left after another hour, and immediately the man wrenched the wardrobe open and yanked Mycroft out by his hair.

"I heard you, you made a noise!"

"I'm sorry, I was just shocked because-"

"I don't give a shit, boy"

"Sorry Daddy" Mycroft said softly. He shut his eyes as the slaps began on his face. His cheeks were on fire, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Tell me what just happened. You know the level of detail I want, Mycroft" the man sat down on the bed to watch the boy as he recounted the night in perfect detail. The man stroked himself, and Mycroft avoided eye contact. He had passed. There would be no beating. Just the images, burnt into his mind.

Mycroft jumped awake, yelling out. Immediately, Lizzie was in the room, wrapped in a pink dressing gown.

"It's okay, Mycroft, it's okay" she said soothingly, kneeling down in front of him, stroking his damp hair away from his sweaty face. His shoulders stiffened at her touch, a tremor running through him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was just a bad dream, I won't cry out again, please-" he was panicking, trying to move away on the bed, away from the pain that would surely come.

"Mycroft, listen to me" she said firmly. "You don't need to be afraid. I will not hurt you. Do you understand?"

"Please" he was crying now, hot tears streaming down his bruised face. Lizzie grabbed his flailing arms and pulled him in close to her, enveloping him into her lavender smell and soft, warm flesh. He was being hugged. It felt foreign, strange. But then he relaxed, and he felt so safe he couldn't believe it. He began to sob.

"Shh, it's okay, let it out" she whispered, rocking him gently. Mycroft forgot that he was twelve and too big to be crying, forgot that he was in the arms of a total stranger, forgot that Sherlock was right there asleep. Mycroft shook with the terror of the memories that haunted him.

"I dreamed, I dreamed of the wardrobe he locked me in to make me watch his sex. I didn't want to see. I wish I didn't know. He said I was disgusting, that I liked it. But I didn't. I didn't like it. I wanted to close my eyes, but then I'd fail the test and he'd beat me and I didn't want the pain" he rambled through sobs. Lizzie held him softly, whispering meaningless words of comfort to him.

"It's okay, you don't have to, not ever again. You're safe now" she was holding back empathetic tears herself now.

"Do you promise?" He looked up at her, his eyes filled with tears, wide with a hope twisted with the knowledge that no one keeps their promises.

"I promise. Would you like to sleep on the top bunk, and I'll stay here with you?"

"Yes please" Mycroft whispered. He didn't move, and Lizzie didn't push him. Everything has it's time. He slipped down until his head was resting on her lap, and she was leaning on the wall. Slowly, he fell comfortably asleep. Lizzie didn't move, and sat stroking his hair until the first light rose into the window.

"Good morning, boys" Lizzie said softly, shaking Mycroft a little. He sprang awake, jumping out of bed and standing in a military pose at the end of his bed before Lizzie had time to think. He looked around at her, realising his mistake, and relaxed.

"Sorry, I-"

"It's okay, old habits die hard, as they say" Lizzie said. Mycroft smiled in silent thanks.

"I'll get Sherlock up"

"Be downstairs in fifteen minutes?"

"All right" Mycroft said. Lizzie smiled sadly at him, and left the room. "Sherlock, it's time to wake up"

"No"

"Good, you're awake" Mycroft said, smiling. They played this game every morning. Sherlock wouldn't get up until he knew what would happen in the day.

"What's the point in getting up?"

"Today we get to spend some time with the Watson's"

"Do we get to walk Jake?"

"I don't know. I think Lizzie will let you"

"Will you still come?"

"If you want me too"

"Yes please" Sherlock got out of bed and pulled off his clothes from the day before. Mycroft handed him the little rucksack he had packed with a spare set of clothes for each of them. Sherlock got dressed and took his toothbrush to the bathroom.

"Remember to comb your hair, Lock, okay?" He almost shouted after him. He heard Sherlock blow a raspberry with his tongue, and smiled to himself. Mycroft sat down on his bed, slowly pulling off his socks. Lizzie had hugged him, had stayed with him until morning. He had been safe all night, no one had hurt him, he hadn't had to look after Sherlock. In fact, he had been looked after. Someone cared enough about him to have looked after him. 'stop it, Croft' he whispered to himself. No one cared. Not about the Holmes boys. No one had ever cared.


	3. Chapter 3

"Morning John" Sherlock said brightly.

"Hello" John replied, looking curiously at the younger boy who had climbed onto the seat next to him.

"Would you like some cereal, Sherlock?" Lizzie asked gently.

"I don't eat when I'm on a case" he said, pushing the empty bowl away.

"What kind of case?" Lizzie asked, smiling widely, intrigued.

"A mystery"

"Well," Lizzie said, "let's hope it gets solved quickly, before you get hungry"

"I don't get hungry. The longest I've gone is six days"

"Why-" John started to ask, but Mycroft coughed, and Lizzie changed the subject quickly.

"What's the mystery, Sherlock? Perhaps we can work it out together?"

"Well, I want to know why Harry has short hair and a boys name, but says he's a girl"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft chastised, his cheeks going bright red, mortified at the question.

"It's fine" Lizzie smiled at the child, who was staring at her, waiting for an answer from under his chocolate curls. "Harry's full name is Harriet, and she cut her hair last year. It used to be long, but she didn't like having to tie it back for school"

"Why is she called Harry?"

"It's her nickname, like your brother calls you Lock sometimes"

"Okay" he said, satisfied "Can I have Corn Flakes please?"

"Of course you can" she smiled. She smiled a lot, Mycroft noticed.

"Lizzie, can I talk to you?" Mycroft said. Lizzie followed him out of the room, away from Sherlock's curious ears.

"Are you all right?" she asked. Mycroft nodded.

"It's just... Sherlock... He doesn't like change, and at some point today, or maybe tomorrow, he'll have a melt down, and sometimes he gets really angry. Last time, I had to stop him whacking his head against the wall"

"Thanks for the warning"

"I need to be with him when it happens. There have been too many times when I wasn't there. I need to be there for him" he hadn't made eye contact with her the whole conversation, and it was even more pronounced when he admitted his guilt.

"I understand. We'll make sure you're together all the time, okay?"

"Thank you. Truly" Mycroft said. Lizzie pulled him into a small hug, and he stood awkwardly until she let go, embarrassed at his behaviour the night before. They went back to the kitchen together. Sherlock had finished his cereal, and he and John were whispering to each other under Kevin's amused watch.

"Kevin, can you get Jake's lead, please?" Kevin stood up and got the lead. He whistled, shaking it, and a small dog bounded down the stairs, yapping.

"Good boy, Jake, good boy! Come here then, let me put this on" Sherlock brightened at the sight of the dog. He pulled himself down from the chair, and went to the dog, extending his long fingered hand to his muzzle.

"Hullo Jake" he said. Jake licked him, and he giggled. Mycroft stayed away from it. He would never admit that he found him frightening. Especially not to Sherlock. He hadn't had good experiences with dogs.

Kevin, John, Sherlock and Mycroft went outside and walked down the road, taking a right onto a footpath lined with trees and fields. John pointed out his favourite field, and he and Sherlock hopped over the style and began to run haphazardly onto the grass. John flopped down on the floor, and Sherlock skidded to a halt, looking a little nervous at the change in dynamic.

"Whatcha doing?" he asked.

"Sitting." John said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Can I..."

"Sit down, Sherlock, it's okay." John said, patting the grass beside him and crossing his legs. Sherlock sat down in the same position, his knees in an exact line with John's. "Has anyone ever told you you're a bit weird?" John blurted out.

"Yes."

"Oh. You're probably the weirdest foster kid we've ever had." He said it frankly, with no intention to wound. But Sherlock bit his lip, suddenly worried that they didn't want him after all, that he would be sent home, that he would have to leave Mycroft, that he would be alone in that huge house, with just his father's anger for company. "Hey, it's okay!" John said, realising his mistake. "I think you're pretty cool, actually. The other foster kids my age have always been soooo boring. There was this girl once, she was a year or so older than me, and all she did was sit in front of the television! She hardly ever spoke to us at all. Eventually, Mummy sent her back, because she was too difficult."

"Will they send me back?" Sherlock asked, so quietly John hardly knew he'd spoken.

"No way, I won't let them. Like I said, you're cool. You'll start at my school soon, and I'll show you all about the secret passage to near the sweet shop so we can go in break. No one else knows about it, not even the senior school kids. You'll have to keep it a secret, okay?"

"Okay" Sherlock said, suddenly in awe of the boy, a year or two older than him, who seemed so sure of himself, so confident, so easy to talk to. He'd never found anyone easy to talk to. At least John had something interesting to say. On the spur of the moment, Sherlock decided to let John in on one of his secrets. "My favourite game is pirates" he mumbled, mixing his words slightly, having never told anyone bit Mycroft. It seemed suddenly childish to him, now it was out in the open, hanging like a physical object in the air before them.

"Cool, I like pirates too!" John said enthusiastically. Sherlock breathed a huge sigh of relief, having expected to be mocked. "Do you want to play now?"

"Yes" Sherlock gave the other boy the biggest smile had had ever given. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you have a best friend?" Sherlock bit his lip hard, feeling the pick of sweat in his arm pits.

"No"

"Can I be your best friend?" He mumbled the words, and they were so indistinct that John had to pretty much guess what he'd said.

"I would love to be best friends. Shake on it?" He stuck his hand out, thumb pointing straight upwards, and Sherlock raised his own to shake. He felt like he was signing a very grown up contract. John grinned at him, picked up a stick and brandished it as a sword. "What are your orders, Cap'in Sherlock?"


	4. Chapter 4

Just outside the field, a rather different conversation was taking place between a stubbornly teenage Mycroft and Kevin. "So. You sleep okay last night?" Kevin asked

"Okay, I guess"

"Everyone has nightmares sometimes. Especially kids who've had to go through similar traumas as you"

"It won't happen again"

"What do you dream about, Mycroft? I just want to understand, so that I can help you"

"Last night I dreamt about being made to watch my father screw my English teacher" he said as harshly as possible, hoping to stop the questions.

"What about other nightmares?" Kevin said. Mycroft fell silent. Thinking of the memories that haunted his dreams.

"Nothing" he said sullenly.

"Come on, Mycroft. I want to help you"

"I- I dream about everything. I dream about the beatings and the women and the... The men he gave me to"

"Wait, what? That wasn't in the report" Kevin sounded panicked. Mycroft slipped into his memory, vivid details scorching his mind.

"If you don't do it, I'll hurt Sherlock" the man growled. Mycroft whimpered. He couldn't let him hurt Sherlock. Not the sweet, loving little boy. No one could hurt Sherlock. But he didn't want to do it.

"Please, don't make me" he tried one last time. The man punched his son hard in the stomach, making him fold over, and repeated his threat. Mycroft stopped the tears falling, and stepped forward towards the stranger at the other end of his bedroom. The man was sitting on Mycroft's bed. Waiting for him. It wasn't like it was the first time, but that didn't make it any easier. Any less painful. Any less shameful. Money changed hands, and Mycroft stood, bent at the waist, holding his toes with his head bowed, and allowed it to happen, tears sliding down his face as his body rocked back and forth. He did it for Sherlock. When it was over, and the man had gone, his father grabbed his throat and squeezed, making him want to choke.

"You loved that, didn't you! Little gay boy" the man let go of his son's neck and punched him in the side of the head.

"Please, can I go to bed now? I'm so tired..."

"You want to sleep?" The man lurched up to his full, quite considerable height and grabbed his son's fringe roughly, dark blonde hairs coming off in his hand. "Then you can sleep in the basement"

"Please, don't-"

"The threat still stands, Mycroft. He's just two doors down. It would be so easy. Too easy. Think about what I could do to the boy. I could hit him. I could belt him, I could throw him down the stairs. I could call Davie back and-"

"Okay, okay! I'll go downstairs. I'll do whatever you want, just please don't hurt him" Mycroft said desperately. Nothing could happen to Sherlock, no matter how bad it got for him. He walked down the corridor, casting a longing half glance at his bed before his father shut the door. They walked in silence down into the basement, his father's hand resting on the back of his neck. He opened the door, and shoved Mycroft harshly through it. Mycroft's foot slipped out from under him, and he tumbled down the stairs, smacking his head on the last step as his body hit the concrete floor. He groaned in pain.

"Who knows what I might do, now you're locked in here. Sherlock's still just upstairs"

"No! Please!" Mycroft yelled, twisting round to try and get back up as the heavy door slammed and he was left in total darkness, with only the pain and the fear for his brother to rock him to sleep.

Kevin looked appalled, and didn't look the boy in the eye, unintentionally increasing Mycroft's discomfort. "Mycroft, you need to talk to me. We want to help you" Kevin reiterated.

"I can't be helped. I'm just a bad kid, that's all. Everything he did, it was necessary. I care too much. Caring is not an advantage"

"No. You need to understand this" Kevin stopped and turned to the boy, squatting in front of him "you are not bad. What your father did to you, and what he let others do to you, was not necessary, it was evil, and he will go to prison for it. Something I've learnt from 19 years of marriage and having kids is that you can never, ever care too much" tears were running down Mycroft's face. Kevin hugged him gently and the boy hugged him back. "You are safe now, Mycroft. You don't ever need to be afraid"

"Daddy! Help me!" John cried from the field. Kevin let Mycroft go and ran towards his son's voice. Mycroft followed him. Sherlock was rocking and shaking on the floor, screaming at the top of his lungs. "We were just playing pirates, and I put my hand on his neck, just pretending, and he collapsed and... and..." John began to cry too.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" Mycroft knelt down beside Sherlock. "I'm going to touch you" he moved the younger boy onto his lap, and he quietened. He didn't stop shaking, or rocking, and his eyes were tight shut.

"What's going on?" asked Kevin

"He's having a melt down. He doesn't do too well with change" Mycroft whispered soothing words to Sherlock, stroking his curly fringe. The little boy rocked incessantly, occasionally crying out, or trying to hit his brother. Mycroft held him tightly, and Kevin played with a worried John a few feet away.


	5. Chapter 5

Back at the Watson's house, Sherlock and John had gone to bed. Harry had just been made to go upstairs, complaining bitterly all the way. But Lizzie and Kevin didn't ask Mycroft to go.

"We need to talk" Kevin said softly. Lizzie leaned closer to the boy. She and her husband sat together on the sofa opposite Mycroft's chair. He was bent very slightly, his elbows on his knees, fiddling with his fingernails close to his eyes.

"I said too much"

"No. We need to know everything, Mycroft, otherwise we can't help you. We need to know if the abuse was also... different to physical and emotional. It'll also add another charge to your father's list" Kevin said, a little coldly, not looking at Mycroft.

"I don't want to..." he felt as though he was about to cry, a lump blocking his airway.

"Please, Mycroft" Lizzie said, very quietly, reaching out to touch his knee. The boy flinched away from her touch.

"I don't want to..." he repeated, refusing to look up and meet their eyes, fidgeting worriedly with the nail on his right thumb. But he began to whisper the story that played vividly in his head.

"Mycroft Hercule Holmes, come here" the nine year old bowed his head as he moved towards his father. His full name always meant trouble.

"Yes father?" he said, trying to be polite. His efforts earned him a backhander around the face.

"Speak when you're spoken to, boy. Do you know why I brought you here, to my office?"

"No father" he mumbled.

"Up here, on the top floor of the tallest building in London, the tallest building in England, in fact, I am not just in charge of you. I'm in charge of a whole empire"

"Yes father"

"Remove your clothing and stand by the wall over there" the man gestured vaguely towards the back wall, near to the door. He turned to face out of the huge window, admiring the view over the city he had helped to build.

"Yes father" Mycroft stripped and folded his clothes neatly, placing the pile on a chair. Making his way to the corner, he noticed his father undoing his belt. He groaned silently, knowing what would happen. He already ached, having given the same thing just the day before to one of his father's friends.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Mycroft. You'll like this" his father said. The boy shuddered. That was a regular line. But instead of the expected rough hands and deep, unimaginable pain, Mycroft felt soft fingers rubbing his back and shoulders. They rubbed the stress away, and he almost felt like sobbing. He wasn't going to get hurt. It would be okay. The hands moved further down his thin back, tracing every visible vertebrae down past his coccyx. Mycroft gasped as a single finger penetrated him, the other hand working round to his front. After a few minutes, he heard his father groan, and felt a warm wet wad of thick liquid spat on his leg and trickle down to his foot. Mycroft sobbed as his father withdrew his hands and stood up, throwing a tissue at the boy.

"I'm sorry father" Mycroft whimpered, trying desperately to think of something he had done wrong.

"Get dressed and get out of my office. The driver will take you home. I want you to stay in your room. If you talk to Sherlock, anything I do to you this evening I'll double on him. Got it?"

"Yes sir" Mycroft whispered, dressing quickly. He turned to leave, and his father opened the door for him. As the boy was stepping out, the man shut the door suddenly in front of him. Mycroft felt the slap on the back of his head, and then the slamming of his forehead against the door before he received a kiss and was sent back on his way out.

"Thank you Mycroft, you did well" the father said loudly as the boy resisted running down the corridor. The confused, betrayed, hurt and angry little boy made his way back down to the waiting car. He pushed his feelings down, down right below the barrier he had built, squeezing his palms until he felt the skin break under his finger nails. He didn't let the driver see his tears. When they got home, he didn't say a word to Sherlock. Mycroft went straight to his bedroom and sat on his bed, leaning his head in his hands. He felt confused and embarrassed and angry, much more so than when it was a stranger. His father was supposed to love him. But no one loved him, not really. Even if his father said that what he did was out if love. Mycroft waited for two hours for him to come home. When the door finally swung open, he groaned inwardly. The man was drunk. And that meant a beating. Mycroft stood up and waited in a military position for the pain to start. The man undid his belt and doubled it over, shouting meaningless, horrible things at his son as he started to beat him. The boy stumbled and fell over, and the lashes increased on his back and legs. He felt ill, shaking with pain and fear and sadness. Everything hurt, and he wasn't even five minutes into the punishment. After almost fifteen minutes of constant beating, the man got tired and stepped back. Mycroft shook all over, blood trickling from some of the marks, others forming rapidly into raised bruises.

"I hope you've learnt something today, son" he said coldly "You are less, much less, than the dirt beneath the servant's feet" and with that, he left, locking the door behind him, leaving Mycroft sobbing on his bedroom floor, trying desperately to block out the pain.

"That's just sick" Kevin whispered, standing up and turning away. Mycroft looked almost longingly at his back, wishing he'd never opened his mouth.

"Thank you for telling us, Mycroft. If you ever need to tell us anything else, we are here for you to tell. You are safe here" Lizzie said, wiping a tear from her cheek.

"I-I... Don't know what to say"

"Then don't say anything. It's okay, Mycroft. You don't have to worry about it. Now, you go off to bed, and I'll see you tomorrow. If you need anything, anything at all, just call out, and I'll come" Lizzie said softly. Mycroft stood up and waved as he left the room.

"My God" Kevin hissed, dropping back down on the sofa.

"I know. Those poor, poor little boys"

"He hasn't said if anything happened to Sherlock"

"My suspicion is that it didn't, that he took it all for both of them. Their father seems to have used Sherlock as a threat. If he hurt him, the threat wouldn't make Mycroft shake so much."

"I guess. I wouldn't be surprised if he had another nightmare tonight. I think I will"

"Me too. I can't believe no one spotted this before. He's been there twelve years. Can you even imagine...?"

"No. Not even for a second" Kevin pivoted on his heel, unmistakable rage flashing in his eyes, and punched the wall as hard as he could, leaving a smear of his own blood on the creamy-white paint.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft was tossing and turning, murmuring to himself, the covers wrapped too tight around his legs, his sheets wet with sweat around him. He was dreaming. It wasn't a memory, not really. It was foggy, his mind refusing to see the full picture. But he could see his baby brother, aged around five, sitting in the middle of the fog. He could see the tear stained face under the bouncy curls of hair, he could see the blood soaking his shirt, he could see the bruises blossoming too quickly on his body, he could hear the screaming, echoing around in the fog. And he could see the arm, coming down repeatedly and hitting the tiny, sobbing child on the floor. But he couldn't do anything to stop it. He stood, rooted to the spot, unable to move or shout out. He was stuck, watching the boy cry. Sherlock noticed him standing there.

"Croft! Help me, please, please!" He begged. But there was nothing he could do. As he realised his brother wasn't going to help him, he looked back down at the floor, his tears coming with renewed force, the blows matching. Sherlock looked submissive, as though he had totally given up on ever getting free. And his form changed. His hair retraced into his head, going lighter, his frame broadened and lengthened, his face shortened and widened, his nose shrank and his jaw dropped. And he wasn't looking at Sherlock anymore. He was looking at himself. Dream-Mycroft wasn't crying, but he was even more battered than Sherlock had been. He took it without word or sound or movement. Mycroft stared at his replica. Before he could pull his thoughts together, he was sitting up in bed, his pyjamas soaking and his throat raw from screaming, within seconds, Lizzie was beside him.

"It's okay sweetheart"

"I'm sorry"

"It's okay. Did you have another dream?"

"Yeah. Only it wasn't a memory, it was Sherlock getting hit, and I couldn't stop it, and he gave up trying to save himself when I didn't answer him, and then he morphed into me, and I just took it without complaining. I should have done something. I should have saved Sherlock earlier. I should have stood up for us."

"Mycroft, listen to me" Lizzie took his shaking hands in hers, calming his panicked breathing. "You did everything you could have done to protect your brother. You didn't allow things to happen to you, things were done against your will. There was nothing you could have done better"

"But- but I should have told someone. A teacher, anyone" he pulled his hands away from her and dug his tiger nails into the sides of his face, his middle finger bellow his right ear quickly drawing blood. She grabbed his hands again, trying to stay calm.

"Let's go with that, hypothetically. You are nine years old, just after that story you told us earlier. Next day at school, you tell a teacher. You don't give details. Social Services come to your house. They see a mother and father in a mansion, doting on their two boys. They see a child who told them he was in hell, in an apparent paradise. They go away. Your father sends your mother out of the room. There are consequences. Tell me why that would have been better, Mycroft. Tell me why you failed when you were just protecting yourself"

"I-I..."

"There was nothing you could do. You were so very, very brave. Most would not have survived. You are strong. I'm just sorry you had to find out so young"

"Will you stay until I go to sleep?" He looked at the wall, embarrassed at asking such a childish question. She was sure to laugh at him.

"Yes, of course" he lay down nervously, curled up into a small ball, and she covered him up with the only slightly damp covers, sat down beside him, and stroked his hair until he was asleep. Lizzie sighed. He was the saddest case she had ever seen, and she'd fostered more than twenty children over the years. She couldn't imagine him stuck in that terrible place with his father. Lizzie's fists curled up with anger she hadn't felt since early adolescence. How could a father do that to his son? How could anyone do those things to a child? And where the hell was their mother? She got up slowly, brushing her hand over his soft blonde hair. Going back to bed, she slipped her hand into Kevin's. Her husband was awake, waiting for her.

"Is he okay?" He asked quietly

"I don't know. I'm not sure he ever will be. God, Kevin, he's so young! And even younger when most of this happened. Can you even imagine it, you doing things like that to Harry or John, and me, standing by and letting it happen, letting you hurt them? That's what their family was like. Mycroft having to go through all of that, then having to protect little Sherlock too, and their mother ignoring it all. How could she have let it happen?" Lizzie was close to tears, and Kevin squeezed her hand.

"I don't know my darling. I just don't know. Go to sleep, Liz, and we'll talk more in the morning"

"Okay" she rolled over to him, and they lay very close together, his legs wrapped over hers, their hands clasped in front of her. She fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

A boy of about five stood in the centre of a room. A tall, dark haired man stood in front of him, shouting and pointing his finger. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but it made the little boy cry. The man suddenly reached out and slapped the boy around the face, and when he cried, slapped him again. He kept hitting he child until he controlled his sobs. As soon as he had stopped crying, the man pulled down the child's trousers and pants, pulled off his belt and began to whip him with it, all over his bottom, back and the tops of his thighs. The little boy cried again, and the man didn't stop until his whole midsection was black and blue. The boy's face was deathly pale, and his whole body shook. The man dropped his own trousers and pulled the boy closer, a lecherous smile spreading across his red face, never reaching his bloodshot eyes.

Lizzie started awake, wrenching herself out of the dream. She looked around, reorienting herself. It was seven o'clock, the light shone through the curtains. She got up, and went softly to Mycroft and Sherlock's bedroom. They were both asleep, Sherlock curled in the foetal position against the wall, Mycroft lying perfectly flat, as though he was being tested even in sleep. She sighed. Poor boys. They had been through so much. She left their room, going to each of her biological children's in turn. First Harry, who was lying on her stomach and snoring softly, then John, who was curled remarkably like Sherlock round a stuffed bear. She would have to get one for the Holmes boys. She watched John, thinking of all four children, for a while, standing at his door. Eventually, she heard Kevin's alarm clock go off, and set about waking her children. John was easy, she kissed him on the forehead and he stirred out of gentle dreams, smiling at her. Harry was harder, and Lizzie ended up pulling off her duvet and shaking her in order to get any kind of response. Exasperated, she went to Mycroft and Sherlock. As soon as she opened the door, Mycroft was standing in military pose at the side of his bed.

"Heya, it's okay" she said soothingly, hugging him.

"Sorry" he said uncomfortably. Breaking apart, she turned to wake the younger boy while Mycroft turned away awkwardly. Sherlock started awake, obviously coming out of a bad dream. Not a nightmare like the older brother got, but bad dreams nonetheless.

"You're starting at school today, Mycroft"

"Oh. Which one?"

"It's called Bayhill. It's a bit different from your old school"

"How so?" he said, still feeling uncomfortable and reverting to the old fashioned tone that his father often used.

"Well, for one, there's no uniform, and you call the teachers by their first names. You won't have to worry about having too much work, because they don't set homework, they let you decide how much work you do outside of school. It's lovely, Harry goes and she enjoys it, even if she says she doesn't. John goes to the primary part of the school, Bayside, and so will Sherlock." She turned to the younger boy, "But you're not starting until Thursday, my dear, because the school's shut this week. So it will just be you, me, and John."

"Okay" Sherlock said happily

"But what about my education? I mean, the school sounds nice, but I need to get good exam results! I want to go to Oxford"

"I know, and you will be able to. You can work as much or as little as you want at Bayhill. There's no pressure, but if you want to work, then the teachers are incredibly supportive, and if there's anything you need, they'll stay behind after lessons or even after school to help you. I think you'll be very happy there, Mycroft"

"And if I'm not?" He turned away to fiddle with Sherlock's buttons, trying to be nonchalant.

"Then we'll try somewhere else. There are a lot of schools in town"

"Would you... Send me away... To board?"

"No. You're here because we want you to be here, not because we want to send you away as soon as we get you."

"Oh"

"Come on, you get yourselves up, and I'll have breakfast ready for when you get down. You'll need a good meal, Mycroft!" Lizzie left the room, leaving them to get dressed alone, and went downstairs. John was already sitting cross legged by the television, still in his pyjamas, his blonde hair sticking up slightly. "Have you had a shower, young man?"

"No but-"

"Have you brushed your teeth?"

"Well... Not yet, but I'll get it done soon."

"Back upstairs with you!"

"But Mum!" He whined "there's not even school today!" She laughed, shepherding him away. She prepared breakfast and just as she was pouring the milk on her own cereal, Mycroft came downstairs. He was dressed in his best clothes: a blue and white vertical striped shirt, black suit trousers and a matching black blazer. "You look so smart! Wonderful, Mycroft, you look wonderful. But you might want to tone it down for school. They all usually wear jeans and hoodies."

"But... how do they expect to learn without proper uniform?"

"What you wear doesn't effect your desire to learn, Mycroft. Get changed, and you'll see. Your passion for your subjects won't go away. Just go with it at Bayhill, have fun. It's your childhood, don't miss out on it trying to be an adult"

"But..."

"Just try it. You'll see" within fifteen minutes, Mycroft and Harry were in the car, driving to a new start at Bayhill School.


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as Mycroft, Harry and Lizzie were gone, Sherlock, John and Kevin were alone in the house. The boys were downstairs, watching cartoons; Kevin was upstairs reading the paper. John looked at his new best friend. The younger boy was staring intently at the screen, as though trying to deduce it.

"You okay?" John asked, his brows furrowed.

"I'm trying to work out where they are. They must be really small to fit in."

"What on earth are you talking about?" John stopped himself from laughing.

"The people inside the television. I want to know they fit in."

"You're so weird! Haven't you ever watched telly before?"

"No. We didn't have a telly. Daddy didn't like things like that. Mycoft asked once, but I didn't see him after for three days."

"Oh..." John didn't know what to say to that "Well, it's just a picture, Sherlock. Someone in America drew lots and lots of these pictures, and they put them all together so it looks like the characters are moving. Then it's sent to the television and it plays from that film. It's pretty cool."

"But what about the ones with real people?" Sherlock picked up the controller, looked at it in pitiful confusion, and pressed all the buttons with the palm of his hand. The volume went up, the screen tinted green, and the channel changed to a soap opera where two girls in tracksuits were screaming at a handsome man in a suit.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, exasperated.

"Sorry" he said in a tiny voice.

"It's okay" he said, as calmly and quietly as possible "it doesn't matter. Did you want to know where the real people are?"

"Yes please."

"This show is filmed in Australia. Actors play each of the characters, they learn their script, and then they act it out. Some people, film it on big cameras, and then the film is sent to the television, just like with the cartoon."

"That's really cool."

"My Dad was on T.V. once."

"Really?" Sherlock's eyes went wide, and he rolled onto all fours, staring as intently at John as he had been at the television.

"Yeah. He won an award for foster caring. We had this boy went I was four, and he was a big teenager, and he'd just come out of prison, and Dad discovered he was good at art, and he paid for lessons, and now David is a really nice guy, he takes me to the circus sometimes, and he's got a job doing design for some marketing company."

"Wow! He won an award! On TV! That's so cool!" Sherlock was almost bouncing, he was so excited. He didn't know why he felt this surge of warm feeling inside his stomach. He couldn't identify it.

"We're very proud of him." John said. There it was, that warmth. Pride.


	8. Chapter 8

It was nothing like Mycroft expected. The school was a conversion of a family home, relatively small, honeysuckle growing over the pale yellow door in an arch, rose beds lining the cobbled path up to it. The house itself was white, with several windows covered by white lace curtains facing out of the front over an expanse of fields, where about fifty children stood around, some chatting, others playing, and the older ones sitting on the grass studying together, laughing and listening to music. The grass seemed to go behind the house, reaching onto meadows of wild flowers. Mycroft stared at it. It was so different to his old school, with it's imposing red brick building, stern teachers and three perfectly mown rugby pitches. Harry got out of the car first, slamming the door behind her.

"Come on, Mycroft!" She snapped, almost the first words she's said to him since he arrived.

"I'm coming" he said quietly, slightly overwhelmed. Harry went off quickly to join her friends, two boys and another girl.

"Don't you mind her," Lizzie said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder and guiding him towards the yellow door. As they went inside, he was taken aback with the simple, homey decoration. The children had obviously painted the walls themselves, the paint was uneven. A wall behind the front desk was covered floor to ceiling with signatures. It seemed that every teenager and child to have passed through the school had signed the wall. At the top, the words 'Bayhill's Best' were painted in red bubble writing. Mycroft frowned. If it was for the best, how come everyone was represented? He was used to the rugby captains and head boys to be displayed proudly in gold, and everyone else quickly forgotten. He sighed. They wouldn't even notice he was gone. The receptionist sitting at the front desk beamed at him.

"Hello, you must be Mycroft Holmes, welcome to Bayhill!" She shook his hand "You'll be in Jacob's class, and after you've met our heads, I'll take you through."

"Thank you"

"You'll be okay now?" Lizzie asked, perfectly happy to stay as long as he needed her.

"Yes. I'll be fine"

"Okay. I'll be here at ten past four to pick you up. Have fun, and don't be afraid to ask anyone anything, okay?"

"Yes. I'll be fine. Thank you"

"Bye then. Thanks Jane." Lizzie went back out the door and Mycroft sat down on the plush chair. He looked around. The foyer was small, the white walls making it seem larger. A staircase curved up to the second floor, and two corridors led off to unknown rooms. He could see kids mucking about in the front and back of the school, and although they were all over eleven, a lot of them were running around, laughing and joking. They all wore their own clothes, and looked relaxed and happy, a rainbow of individuals.

"Mycroft?" Came a female voice from the top of the stairs "do you want to come on up?"

"Yes" he said politely, beginning to climb up the curved staircase. He reached the top and the lady shook his hand. She was blonde, her short hair pulled casually into a bun tied with a red ribbon. She smelt of strawberries.

"Hi, I'm Lucy, and I'm the co-head of Bayhill. Come in and meet my colleague." She led him into a small room with oak beams stretching across the ceiling. A man with greying brown hair stood up and grinned mischievously at him.

"Hey Mycroft. I'm Pete, and I'm the co-head with Lucy. Have a seat" Mycroft sat down in one of the comfy chairs opposite the large shared desk. "So, I hear you're a bit of a shining star academically" he said, throwing a foam ball into a small net attached to the wall.

"I suppose. I was three years above my year group at my old school"

"Wow! Well, we don't have year groups here, we're sorted into ability until you turn sixteen, and then of course the A-levels kick in and we have to do the syllabus. But before that, it's mainly based on the student's abilities and interests."

"But how do you know how well you're doing if there's no one in your age group to compare to?"

"Why do you need to compare yourself to someone else? Here, we want you to have the self confidence to make your own judgement on how hard you need to work and how well you're doing depends on how well you want to do. If you're achieving your goals, whatever they are, then you're doing well"

"But... Surely you need to do comparison to know who is better than the others?"

"Everyone is better than others at something, who are we as teachers to rank not only human beings, but talents. I could never tell you what was a better talent to have- maths or art, history or chemistry, computer technology or music. I am not in a position to judge the gifts people have, or to rank their intrinsic value by my own assumption of what is the best talent." Pete said, keeping eye contact with Mycroft the whole time, speaking to him as an equal. Mycroft stared at him. He had never met an adult who thought these things. Who thought that children should be intrinsically valued.

"We were sorry to hear that you come from a rather difficult situation" Lucy changed the subject.

"I guess"

"We want you to feel safe here, Mycroft. Let us know that second if you feel uncomfortable, and we'll sort it out. You're in Jacob's class, he'll look after you. He's one of the best teachers we've hired. I think you'll like him." She smiled. Mycroft smiled weakly back. "Have a good day, Mycroft, we'll see you later"

"Bye Mycroft" Pete smiled, shaking his hand.

"Bye" he got up and walked down the stairs. A tall man with curly hair and small glasses was waiting for him.

"Hey, I'm Jacob, you must be Mycroft Holmes, the Watson's new lad?"

"Yeah, hi"

"I'm going to be your class supervisor for this year. We put you in the top stream, so a lot of the kids in my group will be a little older than you. But we have two your age and one the year above, so I'm sure you'll all be friends before long."

"Okay"

"Come with me, I'll show you were we meet for the roll call." Mycroft followed the man over to the left of the stairs, down the corridor. The walls were covered in children's work: essays, presentations, artwork, everything. Off both sides of the corridors there were several rooms with various numbers of kids of varying ages. Jacob led Mycroft to the end of the corridor and went into the room on their right. It was lights and airy, occupied by eight teenagers. "Good morning guys, this is Mycroft, he'll be joining us."

"Hey!" A little chorus of voices said.

"Hi" Mycroft croaked. He was nervous. He was never nervous.

"So, we can get on with the day now folks! Tom and Jamie, can you look after Mycroft for me, show him how we do things here?"

"Okay, will do Jacob" a skinny boy in jeans and a dark t-shirt said, pushing his slightly long hair out of his eyes. "Hey, I'm Tom"

"I'm Jamie" said a shorter boy with red hair and freckles.

"Hi"


	9. Chapter 9

When Mycroft finally got back into Lizzie's car, he was exhausted. The second they got inside the house, he went upstairs and collapsed on his bed. It had been a good day. He'd felt free, felt able to chose what was happening to him. He had been in control. It had been wonderful. But he still felt tears trickle down his face. His stomach twisted in sickening guilt. He was happy away from home. Happy without his parents. Mother was still there, with his father. Who knew what she would have to put up with now he and Sherlock weren't there to take the brunt of father's anger? He had no right to be happy. He had no right to feel anything he wasn't told to feel. That had been battered into him since before he could read. He thought of his father. Maybe he missed his son? Maybe he realised he'd gone too far, and he was just wishing they were home. Maybe he had realised how much he loved them. Maybe he was sorry. But he didn't need to be sorry. Mycroft forgave him for every blow as it happened. Mycroft stood up, turning manically, pacing around the room, clutching the sides of his head. He was not allowed to be happy. He did not deserve it. He should be at home, atoning for his sins, not here, in this bright, sunny house, with these kind people and at this beautiful school. Even if he stayed, his life was meaningless now. Now that Sherlock was safe, he had no purpose. It had always been his mission to protect the boy, to make sure he was never at risk. He had done everything he could to save him. And he wasn't needed anymore. It was pointless. Mycroft groaned, pulling at his hair, still turning frenziedly around the room. He was worthless, just like his father had always said. His only uses were as father's punching bag and toy, and as Sherlock's protector. And now father couldn't have him, and Sherlock was safe. His meaning was lost. No one would care if he died. No one would notice. Mycroft dived suddenly for the backpack he had packed with clothes for him and Sherlock the night they left home. He leant against the wardrobe door, remembering in flashes the things he had seen from within his father's wardrobe. He reached into the front pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. His hands shook as he flipped out the blade. He held his breath, biting hard on his lip, as he pushed it into his forearm. Blood beaded out from under the knife, releasing the bitter taste of self disgust and worthlessness from him. He pushed deeper, forcing out more blood, and as it began to run down his arm, he withdrew the knife. Mycroft's head lolled back against the wardrobe door, and he smiled. He felt his body relax. He had paid in pain for his worthlessness, just as he had done so many times at others' hands. He was breathing heavily, soft laughter shaking his chest as he stared blankly at the ceiling, ignoring the blood rushing out of his arm in rhythm with his pulse.

It was half an hour before anyone missed him. Lizzie called up the stairs to get him down for dinner. When there was no answer, she shrugged, figuring he'd come when he smelt the bacon. But he didn't. She sent Sherlock upstairs to fetch him. Within seconds, she wished she had gone instead, as she heard the little boy scream in terror. She sprinted up the stairs, Kevin a step behind her, John staring bemusedly at his parent's pale faces, Harry peering out of her bedroom. Lizzie flung open the boy's door and immediately covered her eyes, letting out a whimper of despair. Sherlock careered into her, flinging his arms around her and burying his face into her stomach, tears soaking into her skirt. Kevin dove down next to the twelve year old and felt his neck.

"There's still a pulse. Call the ambulance, Lizzie," when she didn't move, he raised his voice, "NOW!"

Lizzie let out a choked sob and pulled a shaking Sherlock out of the room. She called the ambulance, and within minutes, they were outside the door, just as Kevin had tied off a tourniquet around the boy's arm and begin CPR, muttering swear words under his breath with every push. The paramedics pushed him gently out of the way and began their own work on him. Kevin pushed his family out of the room, and they gathered with Sherlock at Mycroft's door. Lizzie and Sherlock were crying, Harry looking stunned, Kevin shaking and covered in blood, John staring at the paramedics with fascination and slight horror. Only minutes passed, but it felt like a life time, before Mycroft was strapped into the back of the van, Lizzie and Sherlock sitting beside his stretcher, on their way to the hospital. Before they even reached its doors, Mycroft's heart rate monitor flatlined, and Sherlock screamed again.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock was crying. He was sitting on the sofa in the Watson's living room, his legs too short to touch the ground. His dark hair seemed deflated, the curls flattened. His usually keen, grey eyes were swollen and red rimmed. He was alone. Mycroft had deserted him. It hurt so badly inside, his chest crawling with guilt and horror and despair. It had been his fault. That was what father had shouted at him, when the Watson's called him. Father had yelled at him, calling him names, and Kevin didn't manage to stop him before he smacked the small boy around the face, knocking him down. He had cried a lot the last two days. Lizzie came into the room, trying to look less miserable than she felt.

"Would you like to visit him today?" She asked.

"Yes" Sherlock murmured. He stood up, going to his foster mother. She put an arm around him, and he leaned his head on her chest. They had bonded over the last few days when Mycroft had been in hospital. Sherlock had had to donate blood. There wasn't anyone his blood type in their banks. They got into the car and drove in silence to the hospital, Lizzie reaching over occasionally to touch Sherlock's knee.

"Remember, Mycroft isn't very well. He's still a bit sad, and he might not want to talk to us. If he doesn't, we'll have to leave. It needs to be his choice."

"Okay. Why did he do it?"

"I don't know. Your brother was very sad, Sherlock. A lot of bad things happened to him, things he protected you from."

"But we're not with Daddy anymore. He didn't need to be sad any more"

"I know it seems like that, but it's more complicated. People are very complicated things, Sherlock. We can't solve them."

"I don't like people."

"What makes you say that?"

"They're unexpected. And they do bad things. And they're noisy."

"I know. Keep trying, you'll get the hang of it" Lizzie laughed as they pulled into the hospital car park. Sherlock got out of the car and walked towards the hospital, his hands in his coat pockets, his long, multicoloured scarf dangling around his neck. They knocked on the door to Mycroft's room, and he called to let them inside. Sherlock stepped forward carefully, biting his lip.

"It's okay Sherlock. Nothing bad's going to happen."

"Are you all better now, Croft?"

"Yeah Lock, all better." Mycroft croaked

"Why did you do it?"

"Because... because it hurts too bad, Lock. You don't know, you never had to do any of it. I hope you never have to. Father hurt me, Lock, in ways I hope you can never imagine. And I couldn't stand it any longer."

"You were going to leave me" Sherlock said, accusingly.

"You would have been fine. The Watson's would have looked after you, right Lizzie?"

"Of course we would have. But let's not talk about this any more, okay? Mycroft, I'm going to take Sherlock to the play room, and then I'll be back, okay?"

"Yeah" he muttered. He knew what was coming. Lizzie and Sherlock left the room, and Mycroft turned over. He was going to be in so much trouble. He'd told them that the only way to punish him was to hurt him. She would use that against him. At least she wasn't as strong as his father. It wouldn't hurt as bad. He shook slightly, dreading his inevitable return to pain. When Lizzie came back in, he flinched away from her.

"Mycroft? Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you mad. I didn't mean to not die." His eyes were tight shut, his hands shaking violently, gripping the covers for support.

"Mycroft, I'm not going to hurt you." She said softly, gently stroking his hair. He flinched away, but she kept running her fingers through. "You have nothing to be sorry for"

"I'm sorry."

"Mycroft. Mycroft, don't worry, no one's ever going to hurt you again, I promise."

"But... but..." he rolled over and looked her over, his eyes wide with fear and dread of more pain "I did bad things, Lizzie, really bad things."

"You haven't done anything wrong, Mycroft. Don't worry. You just concentrate on getting better, and we'll take it from there, okay? You just go back to sleep." she stroked his hair for ages, until she felt his gentle breathing slow down and turn into tiny snores. She leant over and kissed the top of his head. It was time to go home.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock started school without Mycroft. He felt as though half of him was stuck in hospital, and the other half was clutching sweatily onto Lizzie's hand, dragging his feet towards the white building which housed his school. John was almost skipping with excitement.

"You'll get to meet everyone! It'll be so, so cool, you just wait! Everyone loves it when we have a foster kid our age! You'll be in my class, not with the babies, cause you're smart, see. Our class has big kids who are nearly eight in, and you'll be the youngest. I'm in the middle, my seventh birthday is in four months and six days. It's going to be amazing! Do you have any marbles?"

"No" Sherlock mumbled, clutching tighter onto Lizzie's hand.

"What about yo-yo's?"

"No" Sherlock looked embarrassed. He would never fit in. He'd never even heard of yo-yo's.

"You can share mine."

"Now then, John, you take really good care of Sherlock, okay? Promise me." She looked sternly at her son, and, guessing that he would follow her instructions, turned away from him. "Now then you," she said to Sherlock, pulling his coat tighter around him, "you'll be good, won't you? Don't be too noisy, but talk to the other children nicely. You'll soon make friends. Your teacher will be Amy, and she's really, really nice. If anyone asks you about Mycroft, tell them he's poorly, okay?"

"Yes Lizzie." He looked intently at her, absorbing all the information.

"Alright, off you go then." She said, kissing both boys on the head. It was such a shame Mycroft wasn't there to see his brother running haphazardly towards John's friends and nervously introduce himself to the enthusiastic boys. She sighed, and turned back got he car, entrusting her boys to the school. Her boys. Sherlock isn't yours, she chastised herself. But he might as well be.

Sherlock found himself enjoying school very much. He had made friends with two of John's friends, and they went to lunch together, and sat next to each other in the reading lesson at the end of the day. He went home exhausted and wonderfully, blissfully happy. No guilt or shame marred his experience, and nothing completed his happiness more than pizza and ice cream for dinner. Going home to his father never even crossed his mind.


	12. Chapter 12

Kevin Watson sat opposite a man wearing a blue pinstripe suit and looking like a pompous owl. The man had a briefcase on the mahogany desk between them. He shuffled through legal files, occasionally glancing up at Kevin with something close to contempt dancing on his lips.

"Mycroft Holmes is in hospital?"

"Yes"

"How did he end up there?" The lawyer asked, although he knew the answer.

"He attempted to kill himself. He slit his wrists."

"Under your care?"

"Yes"

"Why was a foster child under your protection allowed to carry a weapon?"

"He wasn't carrying a weapon" Kevin said, growing angry. "He had a penknife. He's a twelve year old boy, of course he owns a penknife!"

"And yet you failed to monitor his usage, to supervise him?"

"I didn't know he had it." Kevin growled.

"What else do you think he's hiding from you? If, as some now claim, he was abused by my client, he could be harbouring all sorts of negative, violent emotion. If it's not your fault, it's his."

"Mycroft is not violent. He's frightened. He's sad."

"There are two options here, Mr Watson, and after my consultation with Mycroft's social worker, I seriously recommend the first. Either Mycroft Holmes was not properly taken care of and should be immediately placed back with his loving father, who denies all claims that he abused his eldest son, or and I think this is by far the worst option, Mycroft is a danger to himself and others, in which case he should be removed immediately from foster care and placed in a secure institution for violent youth for the protection of himself and those around him."

"None of that's true! He's not dangerous, and I think we can really get through to him on the suicide front. As for going back to his father, the state would never let that happen! He is a kiddie diddling, violently abusive alcoholic, and he does not deserve to have children!"

"There is next to no evidence to support the boy's claims. I will be defending my client, and unless you watch your mouth, you will be sued for deformation of character before you can say 'jail time'."

"They'll find something. It's easy to see how badly Mycroft was treated. He flinches at sudden sound or movement, he has flashbacks, nightmares, he's depressed, he has disturbingly low self esteem, I could go on for hours! And for heavens sake, he had bruises from that last night, huge scars across his back, broken bones! How can you possibly say there isn't enough evidence!"

"Even if there is enough evidence to take Mycroft away from the only family he has, there is nothing on the younger brother," he flicked through the file "Sherlock."

"No way! You can't be seriously considering fighting to send that little boy back there! He's five!"

"I am well aware of his age."

"Really? You weren't aware of his name ten seconds ago!"

"Sherlock, by Mycroft's own admission, was never abused by Mr Holmes."

"Mycroft protected him."

"He does not need to be in foster care at all."

"He does! There is a great deal of psychological damage there."

"The plan is already in motion. Sherlock Holmes will be returned to his rightful home on Monday. That's four days. After that, visitation with his brother will go to one hour a month. Mycroft is a bad influence."

"You can't do that! You can't send him back to that sicko! And you can't stop Mycroft seeing him. Do you know what that will do to both of them?"

"I'm afraid it's all already been arranged. It was nice meeting you, Mr Watson"

"You can't!"

"We already have. Someone will be round to take Sherlock home on Monday. Goodbye."


	13. Chapter 13

"Can we fight this?" Lizzie asked, her head resting against her husband's shoulder.

"I don't think we can. It's all been settled and decided. He'll stay there at least until after the trial, probably after that too, as he was never abused."

"I can't believe it. After everything he's done to Mycroft."

"I know, I know. But we can't do anything about it now. When he's gone, we can try and appeal. But not now."

"Oh Kev... I just hope... I hope he's not treated badly. I hope it doesn't start on him." she turned her face into his neck, blocking out her view of the world.

"It's okay. He'll be fine, I'm sure of it." He stroked her hair, and let himself look worried, terrified in fact, over her head. In the next room, Sherlock and John were playing trains on the carpet.

"You went too fast round the corner!" John said in a mock accusatory tone.

"Did not, you pushed it off the rug!" Sherlock stuck out his tongue.

"No, you sent it off too fast!"

"No! You pushed it!" Sherlock was getting a little confused. He knew he was telling the truth, and John was smiling, but he wasn't admitting to his crime.

"I didn't push it" John said, deliberately egging him on, unaware of the confusion he was inspiring.

"But you did!" Sherlock felt like hitting him. Or crying. Or both.

"Didn't!"

"Yes you did!" He was so confused now. Why was John saying something that wasn't true? He had all the markers of joking, but you don't joke about admitting to things you do wrong. If you don't admit to it, and it turns out you did it, you get punished.

"I didn't, Sherlock, I don't know why you're accusing me!" John grinned. Sherlock lunged towards him, pinning him down by the arms.

"You pushed it off! Stop denying it!"

"But-" John laughed, about to do it again. It was a fun game, after all, he and Harry played it all the time. But then Sherlock punched him, right on his smiling mouth. John yelled, rolling over and pushing the younger boy off. "MUM!" He shouted. Lizzie ran down the stairs and yelped when she saw her boy's lip split down the middle and bleeding.

"Are you okay baby? What happened?"

"He just went insane! He pinned me down and punched me! What the hell, Sherlock?" The little boy was gone. Lizzie looked around for him, and spotted a shock of curly hair from behind the sofa.

"Go and wash your mouth out, okay? Gently." She sent John to the sink and went to Sherlock. He was curled up in a tiny ball, his hands over the back of his head, his face between his feet. He was shaking. "I can see you, you know" she said softly. He flinched and curled up even tighter. "Why did you hit John?"

"Hmmmmmahhhhmmmmmah" he said, his voice muffled by his body.

"I didn't hear that, Sherlock. Can you come here and sit with me?" for a moment, there was no movement. But then the ball unravelled into the surprisingly tall five year old. Lizzie opened her arms to him, and he sat down next to her, leaning on her just as his brother had done. "Now then, why did you hit John?"

"I didn't understand."

"What didn't you understand?"

"He pushed my train over, but then he kept saying he didn't do it. He looked like he was joking, but it wasn't funny."

"Oh baby, he was probably playing. It's a game lots of brothers play, when someone deliberately lies, usually in order to provoke a reaction. But I don't think John was expecting you to react like you did."

"I didn't understand. It was really confusing." Sherlock's body started to shake slightly, and Lizzie felt her skirt getting damp.

"Listen to me. John was playing with you. He didn't mean to confuse you. You see things differently than he does. You are amazing, Sherlock, at seeing things, at putting them together to learn about people. But you're not very good at reading social queues yet. It's not your fault, and it will get better. Don't worry about it, everything will come in its time."

"Okay" Sherlock sniffed, sitting up and rubbing his hand across his small face. The bruise left there from the last night was almost entirely faded. He looked just like any other five year old. And then Lizzie wanted to cry herself, because they were about to let him be carted back to his father. And without Mycroft there to stop it, what would happen to Sherlock? She pulled him into a hug before letting him go, much happier, back to us game with John. Lizzie stayed on the sofa, thinking, for hours, all the way until Harry came downstairs asking for dinner.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock had run out of clean clothes. His stuff from home had been brought over for him, but he had refused to let Lizzie wash them. No matter how much she begged him, or how dirty his trousers got from playing in the surrounding fields, he would not let her touch them. He wouldn't even explain why he didn't want them washed. After a few days of re-wearing the clothes, Lizzie gave up. She collared him from his game of soldiers with John and took him upstairs. They sat down on the bed, and Sherlock looked at her, expectantly.

"I need to wash your clothes." She said plainly

"You can't." He replied, sounding almost obstinate, crossing his arms in protest.

"Why not, Sherlock? They're getting smelly, and you need them to go home with on Monday."

"No! Don't wash them, I don't want you to!"

"Why not, sweetheart?"

"Because... I don't know!" His lips pulled sharply downwards, and he started to sob.

"Oh baby! It's okay, don't worry." She pulled him closer to her, and he stayed locked up, cross-legged, his back straight and his head bowed as tears blossomed on his trousers. "Tell me what's wrong, Sherlock, please? I can help".

"I-I don't want to go h-home! It smells different! I want my clothes to smell of here!"

"Sherlock, I understand, really, I do. But your father-"

"I want Kevin to be my father!"

"Sweetie, he can't be. I'm so sorry. Your real father has appealed to the court. He gets to take you home."

"I don't want to go home. I'm frightened." He looked up at her with tear filled, bright eyes full of terror.

"I'm so, so sorry. I hope that you can come back here soon. But for now, you have to stay with your father. You have to be really, really good for them. We will fight for you, Sherlock Holmes. We will make sure you come back to us." She held both his shoulders and looked him right in the eye.

"Do you promise?" Lizzie hesitated. How could she promise him something that uncertain?

"I promise I'll try, Sherlock. I promise I will fight."

"You can wash my clothes, if you like. As long as you use your smelly detergent."

"Okay. Thank you." She put her arms out, and Sherlock crawled into them, wrapping her around himself, content in his cocoon of tight, warm love.


	15. Chapter 15

Monday arrived without the Watson's really realising. By the time it got to four thirty and the social worker had knocked on the door, Sherlock was only just dressed and ready. Kevin took the lady into the kitchen for a cup of tea while Lizzie helped Sherlock pack up the rest of his things.

"I got you this" she said, keeling down in front of him. She handed him a teddy bear, very similar to John's. It was dark brown, large sewn in eyes staring lovingly out, a lopsided smile beaming up at the carrier. It looked just like Sherlock when he was happy.

"What's his name?"

"I don't know, you get to decide."

"He can be Harry, because that's a boy's and girl's name."

"Okay, okay" she smiled through tear filled eyes. "You be good for your dad, won't you?"

"I will." He looked frightened all of a sudden, and clutched tightly to the new bear.

"Good boy. Remember, Sherlock, that you are a strong, brave, good boy, and that we love you. We'll try and get you back, I promise!"

"Bye" he whispered, putting his arms around her neck.

"Goodbye, baby."


	16. Chapter 16

Rasul Holmes was waiting by the front door for the return of his son. It was a shame that Mycroft would not be coming back, at least not right that second, but one was better than nothing. They had been with that family too long already. He saw a car come into the drive and opened the electric gate just as it was about to approach, giving the impression of effortless timing. He knew how imposing the house could be, when you pushed it. A little boy got out of the car, gosh he was tall, and approached the house, gripping a small suitcase with one hand and a teddy bear in the other. Rasul dealt with the social worker before she even entered the house, using a disturbing amount of lavish charm. As soon as the car had left, he turned to the boy.

"You made them take you away from me." He growled.

"I didn't mean to"

"You told the doctor it was me, when Mycroft hurt his arm."

"It was you." Sherlock pointed out, oblivious to the idea that he might sound rude. Before he knew it, his arm was stuck in his Father's vicelike grip.

"You little brat! I should whip you for that."

"Please, daddy, don't!" He shuddered and tried to pull away, gripping the bear harder.

"No. I won't. Not tonight, Sherlock. Go and say hello to your mother, and then straight to bed. I don't expect to see you until tomorrow."

"But it's not my bedtime" Sherlock objected.

"Since when have you had a bed time? You're not a toddler."

"Lizzie says I should get nine hours sleep every night"

"Oh well, if Lizzie says it" he mocked "Get upstairs, now."

"Yes Daddy." Sherlock ran away as soon as his arm was released and, rubbing it vigorously, he went to his mother's bedroom.

"Hello Sherlock" she said stiffly, without looking up from her mirror, carefully applying mascara.

"Hello Mummy."

"Shame we didn't get both of you. You cannot imagine the scandal we've had to go through, dear. Everyone thinking that Rasul abused Mycroft! How utterly ridiculous. I've never heard such rubbish. When we get him back though, it might be a different story. Your daddy is so cross with your brother, Sherlock. So am I, when it comes to it, spreading lies around about Rasul, wasting the council's time. I wouldn't be surprised if you get into big trouble this evening. You can go now."

"I..." Sherlock remembered what Lizzie had said about being confident to say nice things to people "I missed you, Mummy"

"Don't be so pathetic, Sherlock, you were hardly away ten minutes." She laughed. Sherlock hung his head and gripped the bear even harder.

"Sorry Mummy" he said, ashamed.

"Go to your room, Sherlock. I'm tired of you." She hadn't turned away from her mirror during the entire exchange, and she switched now to lipstick, pursing her lips and running the bright red lipstick around her mouth. The little boy standing behind her, desperately trying not to cry, turned to his instincts, back to when he was with Lizzie, he'd hug her if he was upset. So he put his arms around his mother. Her lipstick smeared across her cheek, and, for the first time, she turned. She jumped up, pushing her son away with a look of complete disgust. He landed on the floor on his butt. "What the HELL do you think you're doing!"

"I...I was just..."

"Get up, and stop stammering." She ordered, he scrambled to his feet.

"I'm sorry Mummy, I was just trying to-"

"You're going to be in so much trouble, you little worm."

"Please don't Mummy, I'm sorry!"

"Rasul!" She shouted "come and deal with this little rat!" Within seconds, he was standing in the doorway, smiling widely and shaking his head.

"Now then, little boy, what have you done wrong this time?"

"I-I-I t-tried t-to g-give m-m-m-mummy a h-hug"

"A hug?"

"Yeah"

"And why on earth would you be trying to do that?"

"Because I was sad"

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Lizzie hugged me when I was sad. I wanted a hug."

"Aw poor little baby Sherlock wants a hug?" He mocked, sticking out his bottom lip. "You're meant to be a Holmes, boy. We don't do hugs."

"I'm sorry Daddy" he whispered, still clutching the bear like a life raft, tears sprinting freely down his cheeks.

"Come with me to my study, Sherlock. I'm going to have to make sure you learn your lesson." Sherlock shuddered and stayed where he was. After a few seconds of Rasul standing in front of him, waiting for him to move, he lunged forward and grabbed his son by the ear. "Come, you insolent little boy!" He roared into the child's ear, pulling it towards him so that the boy was only just on the floor. Sherlock felt his ears ring, and a searing pain there as it was pulled upwards. Rasul led his son by the ear down the stairs and into his study, where he promptly dropped him and let him fall onto the floor. The room was large, with a mahogany desk, red velvet curtains and upholstered chairs. A fire to the left of the window made the room a little stuffy and warm. "You've been home less than ten minutes, and you already upset your mother, showed us what a little baby you are, made me very, very angry, and warranted punishment. I don't remember you being so badly behaved before. These people have corrupted you. What I am about to do, is their fault. They have forced my hand. They have made you bad. They are hurting you, Sherlock, not me. Remember that." He grabbed his chin "remember" his eyes scored into Sherlock until the boy looked away. Rasul dropped his son's chin roughly, and raised his hand. It began with a simple slap. He alternated between cheeks, hitting the left flat and the right with the back of his hand. His thumb was tucked in behind his palm, so it protruded to hit the left cheek and created a flat, firm surface to hit the right. It was only two or three slaps in that Sherlock started crying. Rasul went bright red. He was not used to tears. Mycroft had stopped crying in front of him when he was about four. It had been years since a child had cried when he was hitting them. He pushed his son square in the chest so the boy landed on his back on the floor. Rasul flipped him over with his foot and rested it on the small of his back. He reached to take off his belt. Sherlock shuddered, tears pouring down his scarlet cheeks. It didn't stop for what seemed like hours, but in reality was only ten minutes or so. But Sherlock's back was bruised, red welts rising quickly, and spots of blood appearing on his Tshirt. He curled up tightly in a ball around the teddy Lizzie had given him. He remembered the warmth of her hugs, the special feeling he got inside when he was chosen above John to go shopping or help with the dishes, when he was allowed to watch TV with Kevin or play outside with John. He mourned. Rasul was breathing heavily, quite pleased with the effect of his punishment on the boy. It was almost refreshing to have the boy so frightened, Mycroft didn't show that anymore, which made him that bit less interesting. He smiled slightly when he saw the teddy. He'd noticed it when the child had come in, of course, but it was interesting how tightly he clung to it. Rasul nudged the tight ball of boy apart to expose the bear, and then tore it from his grasp. Sherlock tried to hold onto it, and then flinched away from the resulting kick in the ribs.

"Please can I have him back, Daddy?" he said almost silently.

"Of course you can't have it back, you moron, I've taken it from you. Did you steal this from the Watson's?"

"No! Lizzie gave him to me."

"Liar. And don't mention that fat loser in my presence."

"She's not a fat loser, and I'm not a liar" Sherlock said at almost normal volume. He tightened up in a ball again to protect his chest and face from the three sharp kicks that followed.

"If I say you're a liar, then you are. I bet you stole this straight out of that other boy's bedroom."

"I didn't!"

"What did I just say?" Rasul shouted, kicking him again "what I say goes. Now then. What shall we do to it? It obviously means a lot to you. And you stole it. So I don't think I want it in the house. Tell you what..." He picked up a pair of scissors from inside his desk. Sherlock gasped, desperate to reach out and take the teddy back, but not daring. Rasul held the bear above his head and pushed the scissors down across it's arm. The limb fell to the floor, stuffing ballooning out of the end. Sherlock began to cry again. Much harder this time, as his father cut the bear into small chunks.

"Daddy, please!" He begged. But it was too late. The bear lay in chunks on the floor by Sherlock's head.

"Pick them up and put them on the fire, boy. I don't what it littering up my study." He said coldly. Sherlock stood up shakily, his arm wrapped around his jarred ribs. He stooped to pick up the bits of the bear, his last reminder that, for a few weeks, he had been happy, and took them over to the fire. There was no way to get out of it. The bear was ruined. Sherlock slipped it's arm into his pocket, and placed the rest on the fire. Tears streamed down his face, a seemingly never ending supply. "Go to bed, boy. And stay in your room until I come and get you. There will be no dinner, breakfast or lunch. I will consider letting you out for dinner tomorrow. But only if you're good. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now get out." Sherlock shut the door behind him and limped up the stairs. He managed to drag himself to his bedroom, and had just about collapsed on his bed before he was asleep, overcome with sadness, humiliation, loss and pain. He understood why Mycroft had tried to kill himself.


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft was reading the newspaper, his bandaged wrists getting in the way slightly. He felt quite content, surprisingly. Sherlock was safe with the Watson's. Everything was going to be fine. But there was a gnawing sense of doubt at the bottom of his stomach, not quite believing it. He looked up at a knock on the door, and saw his social worker, Mandy. She was a young, blonde woman, a few years out of university. Mycroft thought she was pretty.

"Heya My" she said. She wanted to call him something more 'chilled out' than Mycroft, and he wouldn't let her use Croft like Sherlock. So My it was.

"Hi Mandy"

"How are you this evening?" She asked sympathetically.

"Good, actually, thanks."

"I'm glad. I have some news for you."

"Good news?" He bit his lip.

"The council thinks so. I don't know... Your father has started fighting for you. We sent Sherlock home this morning."

"What?" He didn't understand. Perhaps he'd misunderstood.

"Sherlock is back at home."

"No. No, you can't!"

"I'm afraid that social services have also seen fit to reduce your contact hours with your brother. You get to see each other, for an hour every third Sunday of the month, at one of our contact centres."

"No! You can't do any of that! You can't stop me seeing him! You can't send him home, he'll be in danger!"

"There was no evidence that he had ever been abused."

"Because I protected him!"

"I know, but they don't see it like that"

"He was never hurt because I was there to stop Father, and I could take it all for him! And you put him back there on his own? What the hell are you lot playing at!" He tried to get out of bed, but she placed a small hand on his sternum.

"I'm sorry My. But that's the way it is. If it doesn't work out, we can start the process again, get him out as soon as possible."

"That's not good enough! Right now, he could be... Oh shit oh shit oh shit." Mycroft pushed the heels of his bandaged hands into his eyes, trying to push away images of his father doing things to his baby brother.

"Calm down My." She said soothingly, glancing up at his quickening heart rate.

"I will not calm down! He's in danger, don't you realise that! I worked so hard, all his life, to keep him safe, and now you just put him back there, alone!"

"It will be okay, just calm down" Mycroft was hyperventilating, his heart rate still rising.

"It won't be okay! You can't even begin to imagine how not okay this is. He's alone there with him. Father is angry with me, for letting us be taken away. He hasn't... done anything for almost a month. You have no idea what could be happening. If he's hurt... If he dies, it's on your head! I warned you! You didn't listen, and now you've put a little boy in danger!"

It was almost an hour before she had calmed him down enough for her to leave. She walked out of the room, turned a corner and then sank to the floor against the wall. He was right. She had put Sherlock in danger. She didn't like their father, he gave her the creeps. What had she done?

Mycroft was formulating a plan. The nighttime rounds happened at 10.30. After that, the shift ended, and there was one nurse and a junior doctor on his ward. That was the best time to sneak away, as they wouldn't miss him until the morning rounds at 7. By that time, he would have rescued Sherlock. He waited until 10.45 before he got up, went to the wardrobe and took out his clothes. He got changed silently, as he was used to doing, and left his shoes off, carrying them dangling by the laces. Completely silently, used to sneaking around, Mycroft left his room. Checking for staff members, he made his way towards the stairwell. He knew that several of the nurses went to smoke at night half way down between the fourth and third floors, so he couldn't go down the stairs. He went up instead, all the way to the top of the building. There was a key code to get up to the roof, which he hacked through in two attempts based on the wearing on the numbers. On the other side of the roof was an outside fire escape, and he ran down that as quietly as he could. When he reached the ground, he doubled back to the side ally where the hospital bins were emptied and slipped on his shoes. He went out, back slouched and hands in the pockets of his grey hoodie, and vanished expertly into the crowd.


	18. Chapter 18

It was pitch black around the manor house. Mycroft walked across the lawn rather than the long, sweeping driveway, avoiding being seen by most of the downstairs windows. He crept around the outside of the house until he was directly underneath his brother's window. There was no light on inside, but hopefully that just meant he was asleep in bed. Mycroft gulped and began to climb. He'd climbed down countless times, but usually went back in through the back door considering how close it normally was to morning. He grabbed a dusty red brick that stuck out slightly and used it to get his feet up onto the ivy. Pulling himself further and further up the side of the house, he cursed the bandages around his wrists. They got in the way. Eventually, after two slips and one outright fall, he managed to get to the ledge of Sherlock's window. He could see the little lump and the shock of dark curly hair in the bed. He breathed out, relieved that he was safe. Mycroft pushed the window, knowing that Sherlock kept it a little open, and slipped inside, landing noiselessly on the carpet. He avoided the creaky floor board and knelt down beside his brother's bed.

"Hey Lockie, wake up"

"Mhhff" he groaned, clutching a piece of fabric tighter in his sleep. Mycroft looked at it curiously. It was a small piece of soft, brown furry material shaped like a pouch, full of white stuffing. He had no idea what it was. He shook his little brother by the shoulders, and the boy stirred, opening his eyes. "Croft!" He smiled, throwing his arms around the older boy, ecstatic to see him.

"Did you miss me?"

"Yeah, lots!"

"Are you okay? Daddy didn't hurt you, did he?"

"I- maybe..." Sherlock wouldn't look at his brother, ashamed and frightened.

"What did he do?" Mycroft's nose twitched with unadulterated fury towards the man.

"He hit me, with his belt. It really hurt, Croft." Sherlock said, his bottom lip wobbling.

"Damn it. Let me see your back." Mycroft pulled up the boy's shirt over his head without waiting for a response. He sighed at the bruises there, gritting his teeth. "I can't believe they sent you back!"

"Daddy said you knew. He said you didn't care." Sherlock looked away from his brother, simultaneously worried it was true and ashamed to be feeling so abandoned.

"Listen to me, Lock. I will always care about you. I could never stop caring. I worry about you, constantly."

"Promise?"

"Yes. I promise. I will love you until the end of the world, baby brother. Now let's get you out of here, yeah?" Mycroft managed to push his rage down deep, but his hands still shook with fury. How dare the man touch his baby brother? How dare he hurt him? How dare he convince him that his brother didn't care? The poor kid was only five.

"Yeah, I wanna go home" the boys got out of the window and down onto the ground without difficulty. But the walk was much longer than it had seemed to Mycroft on the way. Sherlock was hurt, his back sore and his ribs aching, and Mycroft was exhausted, his body not quite recovered from his own injuries. It took hours to get to the only safe place they knew, the Watson's house. In the dark, the small semi looked even more welcoming. The adults were still downstairs watching television, Harry obviously had a torch on under the duvet, and John's nightlight was shining blue out of his curtains. Mycroft smiled slightly, and knocked on the door. They watched as Kevin disentangled himself from an apparently asleep Lizzie and walked to the door.

"Mycroft? What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't let Sherlock stay there." The boy in question appeared from behind his brother's legs, and Kevin shut his eyes.

"I'm so glad you're okay. But you shouldn't be here. Mycroft, you're meant to be in hospital. And you, Mr Sherlock, should still be at home."

"Daddy doesn't want me at home."

"I'm sure that's not true" Kevin said, trying to sound comforting but knowing how right the child was.

"Kevin, Sherlock got hurt." Mycroft said, looking down and away from both of them. He had let his brother get hurt. He hadn't done anything to stop it. He had failed in the one thing he'd been trying to do since Sherlock was born: try to keep him safe.

"Come inside, boys. I'll get you a hot chocolate, how does that sound?"

"Yes please!" Sherlock nodded vigorously. They went inside, and the door was closed behind them. Mycroft felt his shoulders drop from their hunched tension. They were safe. Kevin wouldn't let anything bad happen to them.

"Liz!" Kevin shook his wife's shoulder gently "Mycroft and Sherlock are here"

"What?" She woke up groggily and rubbed her eyes. Seeing Sherlock, she automatically opened her arms. He went running to her, throwing himself onto the sofa to sit next to her. She was one of very few people who he would voluntarily touch and not cringe away.

"I'm going to make hot chocolate for the boys, do you want one, Lizzie?" Kevin asked.

"Yes please" she smiled, stroking Sherlock's hair.

"Mycroft, can I get a hand?" Kevin asked. Mycroft followed him into the kitchen, knowing full well what was coming. "How come you left the hospital? You're not better yet."

"I couldn't leave Sherlock there. Not alone. And good job I didn't either! He's hurt, our father started on him almost the minute he came home, as far as I can tell. I can't believe you all let him go back there! Adults are so thick sometimes! If you'd all just listened to me, I'd have told you!" Mycroft hit the wall with his fist in utter frustration at the stupidity of the adults currently in charge of his life.

"Calm down, Mycroft." Kevin warned "I understand. I agree with you. But that's the way the system has to work. In the morning, we'll call the social worker and get her to file a report.

And hopefully, neither of you will have to go back."

"I bloody well hope not!"

"Mycroft, you know it wasn't your fault, right?"

"It was my fault. I let him get sent back. They weren't even going to think about it for ages before I... went to hospital."

"You father had been planning it since you come here. He had obviously just been waiting for something to happen, anything at all. It wasn't your fault."

"Yeah, right."

"Right." Kevin stared intently at the angry twelve year old, trying to put his point across as irrefutably as possible.

"Even if you convince them to keep us away from our father, we don't really have anywhere else to go." Mycroft said sadly, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Yes you do. You are always welcome here, Mycroft, and so is Sherlock. There will never be a time in your life when we will not be ready to welcome you back here. You don't need to worry about it anymore." Kevin put his hands on the boy's shoulders, and looked directly at him until he looked away. Mycroft had got the message. He was okay.


	19. Chapter 19

The procedures next morning took hours. But eventually, the Holmes's boys were released back to the Watson's, and a police report had been filed against their father. And now Mycroft was sitting alone on his bedroom floor, his back pressed against the wardrobe, his arm resting on his knees which were pulled up to his chest, just as he had been when he'd cut himself. He remembered the relief, the spark of life that had sprung back inside of his heart. And then he remembered the consequences, the pain of losing Sherlock. The pain of knowing he had betrayed him. He could never do that again. Mycroft let his head droop to his chest. Suddenly, he heard a voice from the door.

"You're not going to hurt yourself again, are you?" Harry said quietly. Mycroft sprang to his feet, embarrassed.

"No" he wouldn't look at her.

"Good. That was the most terrifying thing of my life." She slid to the floor next to where he had been a moment before.

"Lucky you." He said bitterly, remembering in an instant all the scary things he had had to deal with. He sat down again next to her.

"You're not like the other foster kids." She cocked her head to one side.

"Oh?"

"No. You're different. Older somehow, even though my parents never usually get anyone older than me."

"I'm only a year older than you."

"I know. But you seem a lot older. Sherlock does too. Mum won't tell me anything about you. She usually gives us the low down on foster kids, but she refused to tell us anything."

"And now you want to know how much of a freak I really am" he said accusingly.

"What are you on about? I don't think you're a freak."

"Everyone else does."

"No one here. No one at school."

"They don't say it..."

"You're not a freak, Mycroft" the eleven year old looked piercingly through his walls.

"Anyway..." he tried and failed to change the subject, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

"I was asking about you. I want to know how you got here."

"No you don't, not really."

"Trust me, I do." She nodded.

"Even I don't want to know. I wish I could forget..."

"No use wishing. I'd really like to know, so I can understand you. You're a mystery you know."

"I'm here because my dad doesn't like me and my mum doesn't care."

"Did your dad hurt you?" She asked calmly. He looked startled, but she shrugged "a boy a few years ago came here for a couple of months because his mum hit him lots."

"Yes. He hurt me." Mycroft wouldn't look at her, and he pulled his knees in tighter to his chest, resting his forehead on his bony kneecaps.

"Hey, it's okay. You're safe now." She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek, noticing the saltiness on his skin but not commenting on it. "You don't need to be scared anymore, My. We got you."


	20. Chapter 20

**A.N. I have gone through this story in meticulous detail, adding scenes and taking out bits that don't work any more. I really recommend starting reading again. You don't have to, but there are lodes of really nice scenes with John and Sherlock, Lizzie and Mycroft or even Harry and Mycroft. It's also about 4000 words longer. So yeah, no obligation, but I think you should start again!**


	21. Chapter 21

**This isn't going to go slash by the way. Friendship only. He's 12 for goodness sake! Thanks for waiting so long, I've been revising :(**

Sherlock was running in the playground at Bayside. He was chasing John and his friends, trying to catch them in their makeshift game of stick-in-the-mud. The playground was loud, filled with just less than fifty happy children. A teacher was sitting on the bench, talking to a girl with plaits from her class. The teacher looked around every few seconds, checking everyone's safety. She didn't notice the teenage boy leaning on the fence that separated Bayside from Bayhill. Mycroft was staring at his brother. The curly haired little boy was laughing, sprinting at full pelt towards John. He had bounced back so quickly from the night he spent alone with their father. He had recovered completely, with no lasting physical, or it seemed psychological effects. In fact, he seemed happier than he had been before. Mycroft didn't understand it. He had been so sure that he had failed Sherlock, that he had started him on the same path he had been on himself. He had convinced himself that his little brother was irreparably damaged by his own foolishness. But it seemed that he was wrong. Mycroft sighed as the teacher watching the children stood up and shouted that it was time for everyone except year five and six to go inside. Year five and six got ten minutes extra play time in the morning and stayed in for the afternoon break. Sherlock went back into his classroom, but came back out a moment later to wave at Mycroft and roll his eyes. Mycroft smiled. Nothing got past his little brother. He pushed himself off the fence and turned back to his own school. He was a bit of a loner, even though the boys in his class had been wonderfully accepting of him, and had not judged him on his suicide attempt. He knew that their teacher had told them the reason he wasn't at school, but no one at school except the heads knew anything about his past. And for that he was eternally grateful. He had been on guard since he came back, waiting on eggshells for the bullying to start: waiting for the taunting and shoving and punching that had plagued his existence at his old school. There, he had been the too-thin, too-tall, too-clever, too-rich kid who always got changed for games in the toilet to avoid showing his classmates the patterns of bruises on his torso. They had hated him anew every time he answered a question in class, or failed to catch the ball in rugby or managed somehow to insult them. He knew he had frightened them with his deductions. They thought he was a stalker, that he knew things because he watched them. If only someone had deduced him and got him out quicker. Mycroft walked over to the school buildings, and along the way he was greeted by almost every student with a 'hello' or simply a smile. By the time he reached the building, he felt a foot taller, and his shoulders were no longer slumped but squared, ready to take on the world. Tom and Jamie, the boys he had met on his first day, were waiting for him so they could start their science experiment. They were in the Blast Room, where you had to go if there was a chance your experiment might explode or set fire to things. They were planning to set fire to Tom's sister's old pair of jeans, to see what colour the flame would be. Armed with fire extinguishers, they prepared the jeans in a metal bin and Tom got ready to drop the match. Mycroft grinned, almost feeling like he belonged there. No one mocked him for loving science, or for reading everything. No one cared that he had allowed his appearance to deteriorate significantly since he had come back from hospital. He now wore very scruffy jeans and oversized hoodies in dark colours. His hair was longer, curling past his ears as though it would be like Sherlock's if he let it grow that long. No one cared how he looked here. It was liberating to the extreme. Tom dropped the match and the jeans slowly caught fire, then quickly engulfed themselves in orange and blue flames. The boys laughed, half disappointed in the lack of explosion and half just happy to be able to muck about in science labs. The flames crawled slowly over the material, and they sat around the bin, watching the fire as though it held power over them.  
"Are you going to get Greg anything for his birthday?" Tom asked Jamie.  
"I dunno. I don't really know him that well..."  
"Who's Greg?" Mycroft asked. He knew most people by name now, but this boy had somehow escaped him.  
"Guy in the class class above us. He's fourteen, but he's smart, so he went up, like us I guess, but older." Jamie said.  
"He's a little weird. Really into sports and stuff. He's cool though." Tom chipped in.  
"What does he look like?" Mycroft asked, trying to place him.  
"Dunno. Thin, tall, athletic? Blonde hair cut short, but he spikes it up."  
"Oh, Greg Lestrade?"  
"That's the one. He's fifteen on Thursday, and he invited me to his party, so I thought I'd better get him something."  
"Mum wouldn't let me go to the party. It's on my Great Aunt Meredith's birthday." Jamie sounded so despondent that Mycroft laughed.  
"Did you get an invite, Mycroft?" Tom asked, interested.  
"No."  
"It'll probably come in a couple of days cause of the foster care thing."  
"What?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  
"His mum will have to write to Lizzie Watson and ask if they can invite you before they do." Jamie said "the last kid they fostered was only here a month and he had to get permission to do stuff like go to the newsagents! I think he'd been in juvie though."  
"Yeah, I can do that kind of stuff. I'll ask Lizzie if she's heard anything." Mycroft was almost, almost daring to hope that he'd been invited. If he had, it would be the first party he'd ever attended. He crossed his fingers behind his back, superstitiously wishing for the invitation to come. He didn't know why it was so important to him, but his chest almost ached with longing for that piece of card.


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock was sitting on the floor of his classroom, absorbed in the story his teacher was animatedly recounting. He was wearing a pirate hat, and the people around him were similarly decked out. He was totally wrapped up in the fictional world, vaguely aware of John sitting next to him. When the teacher finished the story, his mouth was wide open with excitement and wonder. His feet were tense, as though he could feel the deck beneath his toes. But the teacher snapped him out of his world by closing the book and smiling at the small class.  
"Okay guys, before we move onto maths, we're going to have circle time. Does anyone have any news for us?"  
"My bunny had babies!" Josie, a little eight year old with ginger hair exploded, as though the information had been bubbling up inside her, waiting for this shared platform.  
"Wow Josie, that's really lovely."  
"How many kittens did it have?" Sherlock asked curiously. Josie frowned at him.  
"She's a bunny, Sherlock, she had baby bunnies, not kittens."  
"A male rabbit is called a buck, a female is a doe, and a baby is a kit, short for kitten." Sherlock said, looking confused as to why she didn't know.  
"Thank you, Sherlock, that's very interesting" the teacher said, smiling widely at the child who was quickly becoming her favourite student. "How many kittens did your bunny have, Josie?"  
"Four, they're all really, really small and fluffy. They can't see yet, because their Mummy takes care of them."  
"That sounds lovely, honey. Does anyone else have anything they'd like to share with us?"  
"My brother went to hospital" Sherlock said, his most interesting piece of news.  
"I know dear, perhaps it's best not to-"  
"He tried to kill himself, and the blood was all over the place."  
"Sherlock-"  
"It was really scary. But Kevin did CPR on him and got his heart beating, but he was in hospital for ages, which meant I had to go back to my father. He doesn't like me and Mycroft, so he hit-"  
"Sherlock!" The teacher almost shouted "Come with me please" Sherlock looked confused and a little frightened. He had never heard the lady shout. He followed her out of the classroom, turning frequently to look back at John, who was biting his lip.  
"What did I do?"  
"Look, Sherlock, you can't go telling everyone about your brother. I'm sure he wants to keep it private, and you talking about it with a group of six year olds isn't going to make him happy."  
"I want him to be happy"  
"I know you do. So maybe you could try not to mention any of the things you think he might want you to be quiet about."  
"Like his nightmares?"  
"Yes, like that" she sighed. "On the other hand, just because you shouldn't tell the other children doesn't mean you can't come and tell me anything you want. If you ever feel like you're in danger, or that Mycroft is, please, please, come and tell me."  
"Okay." Sherlock murmured.  
"Thank you, Sherlock, we can go back inside now." Sherlock went back into the room and sat down next to John, their knees touching.  
"Are you okay?" John whispered  
"Yes. I'm not allowed to talk about Mycroft."  
"I'm sure that's for the best, Sherlock. He wouldn't want everyone to know everything." John patted his friend on the back and turned to the teacher. Sherlock retreated into his head, trying to work out why everyone else knew it was bad to tell everyone things about his brother, but he didn't. Other children knew a lot of things he didn't know when it came to interaction. He suddenly felt very lonely.


	23. Chapter 23

**Warriora- this is my response to your review a while back about Kevin- I promised he wasn't as bad as I'd made him out to be, so here he is, being nice :) thanks for the reviews, and everyone else too! **

When Kevin got home from work, Sherlock and John immediately bombarded him with requests to make the promised visit to the chippy. Sherlock was almost dancing with excitement. He had never had fish and chips, and Mycroft felt incredibly guilty that his little brother had missed out on things that seemed so key to Harry and John's childhoods, like Disney movies, chips and family nights. The four of them walked down to the shop, John and Sherlock walking slightly ahead, whispering their conversation. Kevin smiled.  
"They seem to have got pretty close".  
"Yeah. Sherlock's kinda let him in, if you know what I mean."  
"I do" they were silent for a few minutes, before Kevin cleared his throat. "Look, I was talking to Lizzie, your social worker and a therapist from the hospital the other day, and I... came to the realisation that I maybe wasn't handling you quite right."  
"What?" Mycroft frowned.  
"You know, making you tell us things you might not have wanted to. The psychologist said it... that it was similar to what your father did, that I took away your control. So I'm really, really sorry if you felt like that, even in a little way. I genuinely didn't mean to. I'm used to dealing with kids with different needs to yours. Lizzie is much better at this than I am. Much better at all of it, actually." Kevin's face was flushed deep red, unused to the vulnerability of his emotions. He hadn't realised until the others had talked to him that he was being at all insensitive. But with hindsight...  
"I- I don't know what to say." Mycroft said.  
"Don't worry about it. If you ever want to tell me anything, you feel free, I will always listen. But you don't have to" he added quickly, his blonde hair merging with his red face.  
"Kevin, I don't..."  
"Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I just wanted to make sure you knew I was sorry."  
"Look, I didn't think that, okay? I was nervous, when we came here, because I didn't know what was going to happen. But you were fine, really."  
"Usually though, I'm better than fine. I've won two awards, you know that right?" Mycroft nodded "They gave me this little silver trophy, for 'Excellent care taken of at risk children'. But with you, I have not been excellent. I wasn't prepared for some of the things you have experienced. I've never taken care of anyone with your kind of background. Lizzie has, she worked for a while at a half way house with teenaged rape victims" Mycroft went pink "not that you're like that-" Kevin quickly amended.  
"There's really very little difference in the resulting psychological issues" Mycroft said clinically, turning away slightly.  
"I've done it again. Said the wrong thing. I'm sorry. Like I said, Lizzie is better at this than me, much better."  
"It's okay, really."  
"Listen, what this amounts to, in a round about way, is that I didn't cope very well with treating you in the best way possible. I made a few mistakes since you came, especially when you ran away from hospital. But I want to wipe the slate. Just think of me as a friend. Any advice you need, any help with anything, I'm your man."  
"Thanks" Mycroft said awkwardly, unsure how to proceed with the unfamiliar social situation. Just because Sherlock was worse didn't mean Mycroft didn't have social problems too. At that moment, they arrived at the shop, Sherlock on his tiptoes, his hands fluttering, in excitement. John put a hand on his friend's shoulder, and the younger boy calmed down at once, smiling at John. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. He had never seen Sherlock transform so quickly from a high to a happy medium. John was a good influence. Mycroft ruffled his brother's hair, who uttered a nondescript word of protest before he touched the black curls.  
"Six fish and four large chips please" Kevin said to the bored looking girl at the checkout. He handed over the money and went to the back of the shop to wait. Sherlock was sitting on the windowsill between the other boys, sniffing in deeply. "Whatcha doing?" Kevin asked the young boy, smiling.  
"Storing the smell" Sherlock said.  
"Storing it?"  
"In my Mind Palace. Mycroft told me about it once, when I was sleeping in his bed. It's a memory technique. You have a building with lodes of rooms, and in each room you store facts or memories. You can lock rooms, blow them up, or keep them open and bright to remember properly forever. I put the smell in the entrance room, so whenever I want to remember anything, the first thing I'll remember is the smell of you lot in the chippy" it was the longest speech Kevin had ever heard Sherlock say. He was, frankly, amazed but the five year old's ability to remember and store knowledge.  
"Can you remember a lot?"  
"Yes. Only useful things though."  
"What order do the planets go in?"  
"I have no idea. I remember Mycroft teaching me, because we were lying on the floor with my Space book, and he had to prop himself up because his ribs hurt, and he told me everything about space. But the knowledge is pointless. When would I ever use it?"  
"I don't know." Kevin said, bemused.  
"Never. I can tell you anything you want about blood, though." Sherlock went into a long speech on the qualities of blood, it's uses in forensics, and the amount you have to bleed in order to die. He was oblivious to the other customers staring at him as though he was a total weirdo. Eventually, their food was announced, and the boys took it off the counter. Kevin let Sherlock carry the bag of chips home, John watching him carefully without seeming to.  
"I thought we could all go to London next weekend. John loves the science museums, and I know Lizzie wants to see a show. We could stay the night, and do the Natural History museum too, if you liked." Kevin proposed to the boys. Mycroft smiled. He was very quickly warming to the man, despite their awkward start.  
"Yeah! I love the Museum! Sherlock, you'd love it too, it's got everything!"  
"Mycroft?" Kevin asked.  
"Yes. I'd like that." The boy smiled. Kevin smiled back. Mycroft sighed. He was safe.


	24. Chapter 24

Mycroft had his PowerPoint ready for his charity presentation. He was nervous. He'd never spoken to an audience before, and although he had an instinctive feeling that he would do well, he couldn't get away from the crippling voice in his head, his father's voice, that told him he wasn't good enough, that the others would laugh at him. After their film night, Lizzie had spent an hour helping him with his project. She was encouraging. He felt like less of a failure when she was there. He was up first in the class, his forename the last on the register. Tom patted him on the back as he went past, a silent encouragement. He could see his friend's hands shaking. Mycroft was chewing himself up inside, his body quaking. He wasn't just nervous about the speaking, it was the whole presentation.  
"H-hello everyone. I- I'm going to t-talk to you about the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, the NSPCC. This is an important charity to me... because..."  
"You don't have to, Mycroft" Jacob whispered, scratching his stubble and biting his lip. He hadn't known what his student was going to say. He knew that the class would be good about it, but he worried about Mycroft's fragile self esteem. How would he react if everyone knew?  
"I chose this charity because I was abused by my father." Mycroft spat out, ignoring his teacher. The class was silent. A few people looked at their friends in bewilderment and pity. Mycroft pressed on with his presentation. "The NSPCC was established-" he ran the rest on autopilot, hardly thinking about what he was saying, his mind consumed by the phrase, repeating itself over and over in his head- 'They all know you're weak and pathetic. They won't want to know you anymore. They never did.' When he was done, the class applauded, and Mycroft left the room at an almost sprint. Why? Why the hell didn't he just do some animal charity, or helping poverty stricken children? Why did he have to chose something that told so much about him. So much that he had tried so hard to keep quiet at school. Something he was almost certain only the teachers had known before he blurted it out. He sank down onto the floor, his back against a whitewashed corridor wall. He buried his in his knees. No one would want to know him anymore. The bullying would start, and he'd have to move again. Maybe Lizzie and Kevin would let him study at home, they seemed to be relatively relaxed about the location of his education. He would learn more anyway. He knew there was another two hours before the lunch break, before anyone would walk down these corridors. So he allowed himself to feel his emotions. He gasped as they rushed forward, burning at his eyes and making him want to scream with frustration at the injustice he had suffered. "Why me?" He whispered, leading his head on the wall and looking upward, looking for a higher power he didn't believe existed. "Why not another family? Why only me and never Sherlock?" His eyes widened, and he clasped his hand over his mouth. He hadn't just thought that? Just wished all the suffering he had endured on his baby brother? Except he had. What was wrong with him? Maybe he was as bad as his father had said. He let his head fall to his knees again, hiding from the shame and the pain, hiding from the tears that were streaming down his cheeks. He heard a door open, and abruptly stood up, wiping his face. He relaxed slightly when he saw Pete, the headmaster, walking purposefully towards him.  
"Hello Mycroft" Pete said, his eyes warm and full of sympathy. "I just got a call from Jacob, saying you were upset. I came out to find you, I knew you were brave enough not to run too far. Why don't we go to my office. I just made tea."  
"Um... Okay" Mycroft said quietly, wiping the tears away from his cheeks with the sleeve of his baggy blue hoodie. They walked in silence up to Pete's office, Mycroft grateful for the chance to abolish his sniffles before he had to speak. They sat down in the comfortable arm chairs opposite Lucy's desk. Pete poured Mycroft a cup of tea and added three sugars without asking.  
"I understand you told your classmates about your background?"  
"Yes. I did."  
"Good boy" Mycroft looked up, surprised.  
"How is it good? They all know now!"  
"Mycroft, something you need to do, as part of the recovery process, is to grow a support system. Your foster family are the core of that, with your brother. Your teachers are always here for you, but one of the most valuable things is a peer group. It would be invaluable to you to be able to talk to them freely. Not to tell them everything, or even to talk about your past, just to be with people your own age. Do you understand?"  
"I guess"  
"You're doing so well, Mycroft. Anyone would be proud of you. The way you've held together, and got better after your attempt a few months ago. How you've made friends, and kept excellent grades, and allowed yourself to merge into our atmosphere, to relax a bit. Looking at you now, I don't recognise you. Come here" Pete stood up and led Mycroft to a cupboard to the left of the room. He felt the boy tense under his hands, and let go immediately, not saying anything, giving him a chance to recover. Mycroft breathed in deeper, knowing nothing bad would happen but unable to stop his response to wardrobes, cupboards or really anything he could be locked inside. Pete opened the door to reveal a full length mirror. "Take a look at yourself, Mycroft."  
"Okay" he whispered. He looked intently at the boy in the mirror. He wore a dark blue hoodie two sizes to big for him, his thumbs poking through holes in the sleeves, dark washed jeans with tears on the knee, and faded, muddy white trainers. His dark blonde hair was a little messy, and a little long, beginning to curl around the tops and edges, just like his brother's. Mycroft couldn't make eye contact with himself.  
"Look properly. Try to see what you would see if it wasn't you" Pete said quietly. Mycroft looked again, trying to look past his appearance. All he could see was what his father had seen, a good for nothing, weak, pathetic, worthless kid who couldn't even kill himself right. He looked away.  
"I can't see anything worth looking at. This is pointless!" He said, breaking the hush.  
"Do you want to know what we see?"  
"What?" Mycroft snapped, running a hand through his hair.  
"We see an incredibly intelligent young man, who has survived things most adults couldn't. We see a boy who has protected his brother from everything, who has managed to face an uncertain future head on. A boy who can do whatever he puts his mind to. A boy who will be able read people like books. A boy capable of anything. We don't see your past, Mycroft, we see your future. I just hope you'll be able to see that too."


	25. Chapter 25

**I don't think I did this justice, but hey... I love the new development! Thanks for all the reviews faves and follows guys- you make my exam season less painful (only 2 to go!)**

**The first review on this chapter will be number 50! If you are that lucky person and you have an idea for an event in this story, please PM me and I will include it! Thanks again!**

Lizzie had had a call from Jacob, and then, an hour later from Peter, saying that Mycroft was upset, but that he had recovered. She had spent the whole morning biting her nails and hoping that he would do okay with the presentation, that he wouldn't flip out, and that his classmates would accept it. It seemed that she had had little to worry about. She was sitting in the car, waiting to pick up the four children. She saw Harry walking down from Bayside, holding John's hand, Sherlock running in zigzags behind them. Smiling, she wound down the window and unlocked the doors.  
"Hey Harry darling. Where's Mycroft?"  
"He said he wanted to walk home. He seemed fine." There was a moment of silent communication between mother and daughter, where Harry seemed older than her eleven years. Confirming from her daughter that Mycroft wasn't in danger of hurting himself, she accepted it and turned around in her seat to help buckle Sherlock in. Harry sat in the front. Her little finger reached out periodically to touch her mother's, sharing the worry about the older Holmes boy. Lizzie smiled at her, hoping it would all be fine.  
Mycroft walked slowly, his hands in his pockets and his dirty white trainers scuffing the floor. He didn't understand. Peter had seen something special in him. He wasn't just pretending, Mycroft knew. But there was nothing great about him! Sure he was very clever, but all that had ever done was get him in trouble. He wasn't attractive, he wasn't sporty, he wasn't good with people. He was unable to cope with his life without cutting. He didn't protect Sherlock from their father. As far as he could see, there were very few redeeming features. But other people seemed to think he was wrong. They seemed to see good things in him, more than his father said was there. The Watson's seemed to like him. Mycroft bit his lip, walking a little slower at that thought. What if they didn't, not really? What if they were just tolerating him- because they felt sorry for him, or because they liked Sherlock? He tried not to think too much about that. He wanted desperately for them to genuinely care. The Watson's saw what Jacob saw.  
"Mycroft!" A voice yelled behind him, dragging him out of his thoughts. "Mycroft!". He turned and saw a slightly taller boy looking slightly out of breath. With a spark of realisation and a burst of nerves he didn't recognise, he recognised the boy. Gregory Lestrade. "I had to yell like five times, did you even hear me?"  
"I- no, sorry. I was thinking" Mycroft shuffled his feet, unable to name the feelings swelling in his stomach.  
"Cool. Thanks for accepting the party invitation" Greg said, walking forward in the direction Mycroft had been going. They walked side by side.  
"No problem, I'm really looking forward to it." Mycroft bit his lip. He chanced a nervous glance at the other boy from under his fringe. Greg was tall for fourteen, but not as tall as Mycroft was for twelve. He had dark blonde hair cut short, a proud patch of fuzzy hair on his neck and freckles everywhere. He wore a dark green t-shirt and a checkered over shirt, matched with light blue jeans. Mycroft suddenly felt very small- his clothes did nothing to add to his already childish physique.  
"I'm looking forward to it too. I've never been to a birthday party before." He redoubled his efforts to bite through his lip, wishing there was an undo button on speech. Greg frowned, confused.  
"Never?"  
"I-I mean... Maybe when I was really little... B-but... No" Mycroft stuttered uncontrollably, his tongue suddenly three times too big for his mouth.  
"Well then, it looks like I have the honour of accompanying you to your first. I'll make sure you have fun."  
"I-um thanks" Mycroft said.  
"Look, I've got to go, we went past my house about five minutes ago. See you tomorrow evening, Myc!" Mycroft blushed bright red at the nickname.  
"See you, Greg." Greg turned away with a wave and began to jog gracefully back to his home, leaving Mycroft floating an inch above the pavement.


End file.
